


Please Tell Me Who I Am

by Eugara



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alpha Dean, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Beta Sam, Beta to Omega Turning, Bottom Sam, Car Sex, Case Fic, Established Relationship, Gender Dysphoria, Knotting, M/M, Marking, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Sam, One Very Brief Attempt at Switching, Scenting, Top Dean, mentions of mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 17:04:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 45,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4795364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eugara/pseuds/Eugara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A/B/O AU. As a beta, Sam shouldn’t even be attracted to his alpha brother (much less be yearning for Dean to finally take that last step into claiming him officially) but, a few compatibility issues aside, they’re happy with the pseudo-mateship they’ve got going on. At least, until a hunt-gone-wrong ends up with Sam being cursed into an omega. He and Dean race to find a way to reverse the spell before it’s too late…but now Sam’s not entirely sure if he even wants to be cured.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. THEN

Sam lets out a deep, sated exhale and snuggles closer into the solid comfort of his brother’s side. Dean’s right arm is awkwardly pillowed behind his neck, and Sam is practically sticking to warm, sweat-tacky skin everywhere they’re pressed up against one another, and he’s absolutely covered in itchy, dried come—and it’s the greatest Sam has ever felt in his twenty-two years of life.

He’d been aching, practically _panting_ after his brother for years, but Sam had given up any hope of having his feelings returned eons ago. Once he’d grown up enough to realize just why this thing could never happen between them. For so many reasons. He’d run away to college, in some small part, at that very realization. Desperately hoping that the distance would free him not only from his father’s iron thumb, but also the unnatural longings that could never— _would_ never—be reciprocated.

But his forced exile had accomplished absolutely nothing and he’d fallen back into Dean’s arms embarrassingly quickly. Leaving his almost-mate in the middle of the night for just a chance to tag along at his brother’s side again. Yes, the fire may have been the actual catalyst—and Sam’s not sure if he’ll ever be able to think of Jess without the accompanying double-pronged sting of guilt and sorrow—but he’d been just as in love with Dean as the night he’d left for Stanford. _More_ _so_ , if that’s even possible. All those years apart hadn’t done anything other than make the feelings stronger. More bitter. Like wet coffee grounds being shoved down into the filter until they rip the paper apart and spill out gritty all over everything. That was Sam’s love for Dean. Messy and inconvenient and not something you wanna deal with when you haven’t had your morning caffeine yet. An indelible dark stain that’s almost impossible to wipe up completely.

He’d climbed back into Dean’s shadow and clung there, pining from the far side of the Impala’s passenger seat. Quietly tearing himself up inside at the torturous closeness. Dean was never more than an arm’s length away, and yet at the same time, so impossibly far that he may as well have been on the moon. Sam had never even dared to imagine that his brother could ever feel the same way. That Dean could have wanted this— _them_ —as much as he did. But with Dean’s fingers clumsily trailing through his sweat-tangled hair, Sam’s never been so happy to be wrong.

They’d finally, _thankfully_ fallen into bed together—dragged like doomed, crashing satellites into each other’s orbit. Sam’s not sure if it was an inevitable matter of time, or if the stress of looking for dad had forced the issue, or if maybe Dean just happened to be born exactly as fucked up as _he_ was. Frankly, he’s not sure if he wants to know what triggered it. But the dozen or so shots of Old Grand-Dad between them sure hadn’t hurt.

Sam takes one last moment to soak in the feeling of Dean’s body, warm and comforting against his side, before finally giving voice to the nagging question he can’t hold back any longer. “Hey…Dean?” he ventures tentatively. “Can I ask you something?” His brother graces him with an affirmative hum, eyes closed against the heavy fog of alcohol still swamping them both, but clearly awake enough that he’s listening. Sam huffs out a self-conscious breath and rests his chin on Dean’s chest, letting the liquid courage take over. “…What do I smell like?”

Dean chuckles at the query, but Sam holds resolute. It’s an idle curiosity that had plagued him on and off for most of his childhood. Growing up as a beta in a culture that glorified alpha/omega mating rituals had left him feeling pretty much deaf and dumb throughout his entire adolescence. No matter which school he was dropped at for that month, he was always one of the—if not the _only_ —non-presenting kids, forced to watch from the outskirts as everyone else danced around each other in this weird, secret language of scenting and pheromones. The only one who had no fucking clue what was going on.

Logically, Sam knows that Dean would have told him if he’d ever brought it up, even back then, but adding a series of too-personal questions on top of an already unhealthy fascination with his brother didn’t seem like a good idea at the time. Siblings weren’t supposed to talk about shit like that. And it’s not like he had much of an opportunity to ask around at Stanford either. It’s kind of an intimate request. Strolling up and propositioning some alpha or omega co-ed would’ve earned him, at best, a scandalized glare—more likely, a knee to the groin—so there’d never been a chance for the subject to come up the old-fashioned way. Both Brady and Jess had been betas as well. For obvious reasons.

Dean shifts around lazily as he thinks, moving closer to bury his face in the hair covering Sam’s forehead. He pulls in a slow, deep breath, and then exhales it again in a playful gust—sending Sam’s bangs fluttering. “Like a beta,” he answers, voice gravelly with disuse.

“Wow,” Sam snorts, grinding his forehead against Dean’s chin to get rid of the itch. “ _Specific_.”

His brother laughs and tightens the arm around his shoulders. “Clean,” he says honestly. “Like, uh, clean skin. And salt.” He scooches forward to nudge his nose under the curve of Sam’s jaw. “And outside.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Outside?” he repeats, thoroughly unimpressed. “What, like dirt?”

“No, not like dirt,” Dean says defensively. “Just like _outside_ , y’know? Like, I don’t know… Trees? Fresh air. That kinda thing.”

Sam lets out a contemplative hum, muffled against his brother’s temple. “Really?”

“M-hmm,” Dean responds sleepily. Then he finally cracks an eye open, tipsy and amused. “Why? What do _I_ smell like?”

Sam makes a dismissive sound, forcing his breath out through his teeth. “I don’t know,” he says. “How am _I_ supposed to tell?” He leans over awkwardly and gives his older brother an experimental sniff. “Uh…sex? Wait, no—shampoo.”

Dean lets out a mocking scoff at Sam’s verdict, rolling back to lie against the crappy motel bed. “Nah, you’re doing it wrong. It’s beneath that.” He purses his lips as he tries to communicate the concept. “It’s not like deodorant or aftershave or whatever,” he says, twirling his wrist. “That’s just chemical shit. It’s like—I dunno—like the thing that’s _underneath_ the rest of the…thingies.”

Sam fights off a smile at the pathetic explanation. “Cheap whiskey makes you eloquent,” he teases. But Dean doesn’t cave. He just keeps staring at him expectantly with those warm, lust-blown eyes, and Sam can’t help but be suckered in. He slowly rolls himself on top of his brother’s body, propping his weight up on his elbows as he makes a big show of sniffing over Dean’s collarbone, snuffling noisily up the column of his throat until Dean laughs at the drunken impression. Sam leaves an affectionate kiss behind the shell of his ear, then pulls back to meet his brother’s eyes. “Mint,” he announces authoritatively.

But Dean just cracks up again. “That’s my fucking shampoo, man.” He twists Sam’s legs up between his own, and then flips them both over until he’s back on top, his amulet draping down to knock against Sam’s sternum. “Wow,” Dean says, dropping a teasing line of nips and kisses up the curve of his shoulder, “you are _terrible_ at that.”

“Oh, screw you.” Sam half-heartedly tries to buck his brother off, but the ridiculous smile plastered across the lower half of his face completely undermines the action.

“Y’know,” Dean drawls, completely unfazed by the attempt, “if you wanted to go another round, Sammy, all you had to do was ask.”

Sam can feel himself melt at the offer. It’s everything he’s ever dreamed of being presented to him on a silver fucking platter. He grins and flicks a playful finger over one of Dean’s nipples before tracing it along the centerline of his torso, slowly reaching down until he can wrap his hand around the base of his brother’s knot—the weight and feel of it still foreign to him. It’s so different than anything Sam’s got and it weirdly thrills him, even despite the fact that he’s already seen Dean in every possible state of undress a million times over. Living in each other’s pockets the way that they do doesn’t leave much room for privacy. Not to mention that Dean was never really one for modesty when they were pups. But a lifetime of sidelong glances and quiet yearnings can’t hold a candle to the feel of his flesh and blood brother pulsing hot and hard in the palm of his hand.

“ _Jesus Christ_ , Sam,” Dean breathes, just a hint of his tongue peeking out over the wet line of his bottom lip. “Jesus _Christ_ , what you do to me.”

Sam can’t hold back the strangled moan of pleasure that escapes him at Dean’s words. The unending, frantic litany of _—What are you doing? He’s your brother. He’s an **alpha** —_still not strong enough to cool the heat in Sam’s belly. He’s so fucked up. _They’re_ so fucked up. Sam curls his free hand around the nape of Dean’s neck and yanks him down until he can trace over his brother’s gorgeous lips with his own tongue, relishing in the heated groan Dean pours into his mouth.

Yeah, okay. So maybe they’re a little fucked up.

Sam wouldn’t have it any other way.

 


	2. NOW

“Oh _God_ , Dean,” Sam moans. “ _Oh, God_.” He throws his head back against his brother’s shoulder and tightens his grip on the arm Dean’s got locked around his waist, thrusting his hips forward into the fist intent on wringing him dry.

A low, reverberating growl comes spilling from the chest pressed up flush against his back, sending tremors quivering up his spine as Dean leans forward to mouth at the tendon at the base of his neck. “Yeah. C’mon, Sammy,” he says through his teeth, his hot, hard cock fucking savagely up along the crease of Sam’s ass. Gliding through the slick trail of his own leaking pre-come. “Does that feel good, baby?” He jams his face into the crook of Sam’s shoulder and lets out a broken sound, his hand picking up into a brutal rhythm. “ _God_ , you feel so good. Feel even better if I was inside you.”

Sam groans at his brother’s words, sliding into even more of a desperate mess. God, he wishes. But it’s not worth all the extra effort right now. Not with them both so close as it is. Maybe next time.

“You want that, sweetheart?” Dean purrs, grinding the base of his knot hard against the rim of Sam’s hole. “You want me to fuck you? _Knot_ you? I could get inside you so deep, tie us together, and just keep you there. Right on the edge like that. That how you want it?” It’s just dirty talk. Dean’s already so far inflated that he couldn’t get in even if he tried—and it’s not like they’ve ever actually tied. Doesn’t stop it from being hot as sin though.

“ _Always_ ,” Sam breathes. He twists his head around to catch his brother’s bottom lip with his teeth, biting hard as he shoves his hips back. Dean lets out another wrecked sound, and Sam isn’t too far behind.

Dean tightens the arm around Sam’s middle, grip like an iron rail, and growls into his mouth as he ruts faster. Harder. “Wanna fill you up, Sammy,” he says tightly, pulling back to whisper into the shell of his ear. His voice is raw with barely-constrained lust—more animal than man right now—but the sentiment is heartfelt. Intimate. Just for him. “Wanna fuck you for days. Keep you right here the whole time.” His brother tightens the grip he’s got around Sam’s cock, stripping him so mercilessly he’s half afraid he’s gonna erupt into flames. “God, look at you. Can’t even think when you’re like this, can you? That big brain of yours just turns right the fuck off.”

Sam lets out a pathetic whimper at the statement. He’s still coherent enough to know he should probably take offense at the blow to his pride, but far too strung-out to do anything other than press closer into his brother’s embrace. His body blindly seeking out the sweet release Dean’s offering.

“Could keep you just like this,” Dean rasps hotly. “Right here on this bed. And I’d take care of you. Give you everything you need.” He skims his teeth back over Sam’s shoulder—too gently. A whisper of a promise that he’ll never keep. It’s not enough to draw blood. Not enough to leave a mark. _God_ , Sam wants him to leave a mark. “You want that, Sammy?” Dean pants against his skin. “You want me to give you what you need? ‘Cause you know I’m the only one who can.”

Dean sucks _hard_ against his neck, and then Sam is popping off like a champagne cork—his muscles arching against his brother’s grasp and too mindless with pleasure to be annoyed that he’s thinking in clichés. Dean chases the curve of his spine, grinding up hard against his ass, the tip of his swollen cock just barely catching against Sam’s rim, until he’s finally tumbling over the edge right behind him. Seed splashing hot against the small of his back as Dean keeps rutting through his orgasm, holding Sam close to his chest until they’re both spent.

Sam lets out a muted grunt as his brother dumps him onto the mattress beneath them and then immediately follows suit, pulling Sam tight against him as he attempts to smother him in miles of bare skin. Sam just turns his head into Dean’s shoulder and lets it happen. It’s as good a place to die as any, all curled up and safe—and surrounded by warm, sweaty _Dean_ on all sides. Plus, he’ll probably pull away before Sam actually suffocates. He’s got kind of a thing about keeping him alive.

An affectionate hand sweeps over the spread of his back, soothing the tension from his still-trembling limbs, and Sam sighs as he relaxes into the touch. He always gets a little shaky after sex that intense. Adding in the soft glide of his brother’s hands? He could practically fall asleep on top of Dean right now.

“So…any plans for the rest of tonight?” Dean asks warmly. He pauses to give Sam’s ass a brief grope before continuing his gentle petting. “Hot date? All-night library rave?”

Sam snorts at the stupid question, nuzzling closer into the collarbone under his face. “Well, I _was_ gonna take a quick expedition up Everest,” he mumbles teasingly, “but since you asked so nicely, maybe I’ll just stay in and watch shitty motel TV with you instead.”

Dean hums and presses a quick kiss to the top of his head. “No can do, little brother.” He gives him one last squeeze before blithely rolling away, his back to Sam as he fumbles around the sheets for his discarded boxers. “I’m meeting up with that coroner chick for drinks later.”

Sam stiffens at the announcement. He thought Dean had been _flirting_ , not actually asking. His brother having a date isn’t remotely outside the realm of expectation, but it’s still not the most pleasant thing to hear while smack dab in the middle of the afterglow.

He’s pretty much spent for now (every single one of his brain cells violently shooting out of his dick tends to do that to him), but Dean can keep going. _Has_ , on the odd evening that Sam feels like seeing how many times he can get his brother off before he’s begging for mercy. Dean can’t exactly reach full orgasm the way they fuck around. Their bedroom romps aren’t much more than what he can get from his own right hand and his release, when they’re together, ends up being somewhat similar to Sam’s own. Alphas can’t completely knot without the presence of omega pheromones, and that’s something Sam isn’t physically capable of providing, no matter how mind-blowing the sex is otherwise. Dean never complains though—especially not on their intermittent marathon nights. What he _does_ do is pick up the occasional omega tail to blow off a little of his accumulated steam. And Sam’s not enough of a dick to put his foot down on something his brother clearly wants. Doesn’t mean he needs to hear him brag about it though.

“You really couldn’t have waited five minutes before hitting me with that one?” Sam says tiredly. He doesn’t exactly _mean_ for the comment to come out sounding quite as passive-aggressive as it does, but once it’s out there, he doesn’t particularly feel like taking it back either. Sam flips over onto his other side and shifts away from Dean, curling around the lumpy motel pillow. “I mean, you could have just tossed me out of the bed right afterwards. Or left some cash on the nightstand or something.”

“Jesus, Sam. Really?” Dean gives up on his clothing in order to lean back against the headboard. Sam can’t exactly see him right now, but it feels like his eyes are boring holes into the back of his skull. “You’re gonna pull the jealous, bitchy act out on me _now?”_

“Oh _please_ ,” he scoffs under his breath. “Don’t even pretend like you wouldn’t do the exact same thing in my position.”

The mattress suddenly shifts under Dean’s weight, briefly tugging Sam toward the center as his brother rolls off of the bed. “No, I wouldn’t. Because _I_ know that the random coroner omegas, or whatever,” he throws out a hand, “—probably nerdy, bookworm betas in your case—don’t mean a fucking thing.”

Sam keeps his bitterness clenched between his teeth until he physically can’t hold it in anymore. “You’re such a fucking liar,” he spits quietly, fingers clawing into the worn pillowcase. “You’re a damn hypocrite, Dean.”

“Oh screw you,” his brother sighs, clearly tired of this argument. “If you ever felt like getting some strange, I’d be a pillar of support.”

Sam can barely stop himself from choking on the harsh laughter clogging up his throat. “ _Fine_ ,” he threatens hollowly, shoving himself up onto his elbows. “Then maybe I _do_ feel like going out tonight.” He scrambles out of bed to get right up in his brother’s stupid face. “Maybe I’m gonna come with you to the bar. Find myself some unmated beta looking for a one-night stand.”

Dean’s eyes flash murderously before he can clamp down on the automatic reflex. “Of course you can do that,” he growls, the easy-going sentiment at violent odds with the way he’s suddenly caging Sam back against the wall with his own body. “Free country, Sammy. You can go out and do whoever you want.” Dean tenses the muscles of his arms until his biceps bulge, probably trying to rein in the desire to grab Sam, toss him back down to the bed, and _tie_ him there. Struggling to do the fair, equitable thing despite the angry vibrations still rumbling through his chest. He manages to hold out for six or seven seconds before breaking. It’s practically a new record. “Don’t have to though,” he hisses against Sam’s jaw. “You wanna fuck someone? You can fuck me.” Dean pins him to the wall with his hips, grabbing Sam’s hand and forcing it around a handful of the firm, tempting flesh of his ass. “You can fuck me and then you won’t have to go out looking for anyone else. That what you want?”

They’ve done it before, here and there, the rare times that Sam needed a tighter fit around his cock _right the fuck now_. Alphas aren’t exactly built for getting off that way though, not like omegas or male betas are. A knot in first class means there’s no prostate riding coach, and the whole ceremony just tends to play out like a more time-consuming handy. Or like twenty minutes with a surprisingly lifelike sex doll. Really, there’s no physical benefit to Dean’s current offer at all—nothing for his brother to gain other than the territorial smugness of knowing that Sam isn’t being sated elsewhere.

“You’re _mine_ ,” Dean grunts, teeth skimming temptingly over the unmarked skin of Sam’s throat. “No one else gets to have you. Not _ever_. Got it?” And yeah, it’s a little annoying, but Sam knows that his brother can’t help it. His instinctual alpha nature is too ingrained to not bubble over the top every once in a while. Plus, as far as Dean’s irritatingly over-protective quirks go, this is actually one of the tamer ones. “ _Mine_ ,” he says again. “Don’t need to fuck anyone else. You can stay right here with me.”

Sam rolls his eyes and finally decides to let his brother off the hook. Point made. “Dean, I literally _just_ came. I’m not fucking anyone else tonight.”

The growling immediately cuts off as Dean backs away, blinking in surprise. “Oh. Good.” Sam shoves away from the wall with a frustrated sigh and makes sure to shoulder check his brother on the way by. “I mean, you _could_ ,” Dean tosses after him belatedly. “If you wanted to.”

“Gee, Dean,” he says, his words dripping with sarcasm. “Thanks.”

“Do—” Dean trails him to the bathroom, edging the tile like he’s not sure if he’s allowed in. “Do you want me to cancel?” Sam stops fiddling with the shower head for a moment to fix him with a blank look. “I’m serious, man,” Dean says. “If you need me to stay, then I will.”

“…No,” Sam sighs, after one selfish moment of consideration. He twists the hot water on and moodily runs his fingers under the spray. “I don’t want you to cancel.”

Dean takes one hesitant step into the bathroom. “You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” Sam yanks the shower curtain fully aside and steps into the tub, lingering for half a second on his brother’s guilty face before pulling it closed again. “Go have fun with your omega,” he calls out from behind the retro pattern of orange and brown circles. It probably hasn’t been changed since the motel first opened, and glancing at the sporadic pattern of dark mold around the bottom isn’t making Sam feel any better about his current hiding place.

“She’s not _my_ omega,” Dean says sulkily, sounding suspiciously like a kicked puppy. He scoots closer to the bathtub, plastic squeaking as he fiddles with the edges of the curtain. “ _You’re_ my beta.”

Sam fights back a smile as he lathers up the bar of cheap soap between his hands. “That’s not even a thing,” he says, grudgingly fond. Letting Dean know that the sentiment is appreciated anyway. He jolts as a shot of cold air suddenly sneaks in past the barrier of steam he’s trying to build up, only settling in realization once he recognizes the familiar hands creeping over his waist. “Dude, what are you even doing? Get out of my shower.”

“Can’t,” Dean rumbles, shoving aside Sam’s wet hair so that he can nose at the back of his neck. “I need to wash off before I leave. Smell like you.”

Sam can’t help the sudden flare of possessive contentment. “Really?”

“M-hmm. S’all over me.” Dean presses in closer against his back, voice pitched low. “You want me to go out like this? Show up for my date just _reeking_ of beta?” Dean runs his hands over Sam’s hips, snaking forward to tease at his spent cock. “I’d do it,” he says quietly. “Tell me to do it.”

Sam shakes off the tempting thought. The resulting shitshow wouldn’t be worth the brief moment of petty spite, no matter how enjoyable a scenario Sam’s imagination can conjure up. “She’d be able to smell that we’re related,” he pants, trembling under Dean’s touch. “Wouldn’t she?” He closes his hands around his brother’s wrists, forcefully halting the prodding at his oversensitive flesh. “Just tell her we live together.”

Dean shifts back a little, chuckling warmly. “Doesn’t work like that, sweetheart. I smell like beta and sex. I don’t shower, there’s gonna be _zero_ question of what we’ve been up to.”

“Oh,” Sam says.

Dean pulls his hands back finally, migrating his pawing to less-delicate areas—and then there’s a long moment of awkward silence as they let the earlier bickering slowly settle between them to shrivel up and die in the humid air. It’s Sam’s fault, probably. He can’t seem to swing a dead cat recently without hitting one or another of his hot-button issues. Maybe he needs to just keep his shit to himself from here on in. Dean lets out an impatient sigh like he can hear Sam’s thoughts, and then spins him around, tugging him down so that he can wash his hair. A peace offering.

Sam hooks his arms under his brother’s shoulders, presses his face into his neck, and lets him.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Sam Winchester knows that his brother is a catch.

In the most hyperbolic sense, unfortunately. An unclaimed alpha as attractive and strong as Dean is? Any omega with two brain cells to rub together would murder their own grandmother just to get their hooks into him. He probably smells all perfect and mouth-watering too, judging from the way every single omega head they pass by seems to pull an abrupt 180. Sam knows they must wonder though. Why someone as desirable as Dean is still unmated at his age. What’s wrong with him that someone didn’t snap him up years ago. Sam’s seen those looks too—the curiosity nipping at the heels of the initial, knee-jerk attraction. He’s not sure which one he hates more.

Two beams of bright light wash across the motel window as a car drives by, and Sam snaps his laptop closed with a sigh, leaning back in the uncomfortable chair that their current room is providing. His brother had offered to bring him along to the bar—as if watching Dean hit on the pretty blonde coroner from this morning sounded, in any way, like a pleasant evening—but a brief attempt at sitting through a terrible Van Damme movie had quickly turned into catching up with research for the case. Because at least _one_ of them is professional enough to keep working.

They’d found themselves in Delaware due to a particularly eye-catching newspaper headline over breakfast, yesterday. The bodies of two community college students had been discovered close to a storefront in downtown Dover, strewn out before the rest of the quaint little businesses selling organic soaps and watercolors of nostalgic Americana. _Strewn out_ being the operative words. The kids’ remains had basically been charcoal by the time they were identified. And with no hint of fire damage to the rest of the shops or sidewalks, Dean had easily declared it their kind of thing. So, Sam’s plan is to hit up the affected boutique—Heritage Antiques  & Jewelry, a lone antique shop nestled among the throng of independent bookstores—first thing in the morning. Until then, he doesn’t really have anything better to do than while away the hours idly distracting himself while he tries not to think about his stupidly irritating not-quite-mate.

Unfortunately, his entertainment choices are rather limited. He’d watch some mind-numbing TV or something, but every single sitcom on the planet is constructed entirely of sexy 20-somethings talking about how great it is that they’ve found their mate. Or whining about how their mate never puts the dishes away properly and forgets to pick up the pups from school. Or searching for their one true mate in the big city while juggling a burgeoning architectural career. _Christ_ , if Sam has to sit through one more terribly-written episode of How I Met Your Alpha, he’s gonna tear his goddamn hair out. He sighs and gives the blank television set a longing glance. Internet solitaire it is then.

He’s only halfway through his seventh game when the object of all his frustrations comes crashing in through the motel door. Tipsy and loose-limbed and the bearer of that particular gleam in his eye that declares he’s just been thoroughly fucked.

“Heya, Sammy,” Dean says cheerfully, striding over to drop himself heavily onto Sam’s shoulders. Then, with a quick glance to the computer screen, “Working hard or hardly working?”

Dean doesn’t smell overwhelmingly of slick, so he must have showered again at the coroner’s place before driving back here. Washed the rest of her scent off too. Couldn’t even wait to get out the door before scrubbing himself clean. _Good_. Sam bets that stung. “Fun night?” he can’t help but ask despite himself. Because apparently he’s a glutton for punishment.

“Mm,” his brother hums affirmatively, drunkenly rubbing his cheek against the top of Sam’s head. His stubble catches at the loose strands like Velcro, but Dean doesn’t seem to mind (or notice) the extra fringe attached to his face. “She had a fucking waterbed, man. Didn’t even know those existed outside of 70s porn.” He takes a break from his sexual reminiscing to nuzzle into his hair again. “Missed you, though.”

Sam lets out a huff of laughter at all the cuddling. His brother always gets like this after knotting—some kind of weird alpha thing—and Sam isn’t enough of a saint to deny that he enjoys the benefits. Even if some random omega was the initial catalyst. “I sure hope you didn’t bring that up in bed,” he says, grudgingly amused. “Most people tend to frown upon that sort of thing.”

“What? Talking about someone else during sex?” Dean asks with a mischievous smirk. “Or talking about someone else during sex when that someone happens to be my little brother?”

“Only when that someone happens to be your _beta_ brother,” Sam corrects him bitterly, the real world sweeping back in to put a damper on his brief high. Same way it always does. His moment of levity dissolves back into the low-level, sour feeling he’d been nursing all night.

“What?” Dean ducks down to catch his eyes, his after-sex buzz making him all attentive and shit. “What’s wrong?”

Sam scoffs and gestures a hand at his laptop screen. “Nothing,” he snits. “I had a lovely evening doing research and waiting for your ass to get back from fucking a stranger.”

Dean lets out a strained sigh, clearly not excited to rehash _this_ particular fight again. “What do you want me to do, Sam?”

“…You could claim me,” he offers petulantly.

A wave of icy darkness comes crashing down over Dean’s expression. Sobering him in an instant. “ _No_.”

“Why not?” Sam scrubs at his tired eyes, hating how childish and pathetic he sounds. “Seriously. I wanna claim _you_. Why can’t we?” He wraps his hands in his brother’s overshirt and holds him fast. “You always say ‘no’, Dean, and I don’t get it. It’s just one stupid bite. Don’t you want to be mates?”

Dean’s face falls immediately, his entire posture softening as he’s hit with the full extent of Sam’s pleas. “We are,” he says reassuringly, crouching down to run his hands over Sam’s thighs. “Sammy, we _are_. In everything but name.”

“In everything but action, you mean,” he mutters under his breath.

His brother sighs in frustration, fingers digging into Sam’s jeans. “ _Really_ , Sam? Can you please not make this any harder? Because it already rubs me the wrong way without you piling on.”

Sam frowns. “What does?”

“Fucking around with omegas,” Dean says patronizingly, like Sam’s being particularly dense today. “Sets my teeth on edge.”

“Wait, seriously?”

He gives him a look like he’s an idiot. “Sammy, just because we ain’t mated, it doesn’t mean that we’re not _mated_. I feel like a cheating shit every time I go out.”

Sam shifts forward in his seat, frantically latching onto the opening he’s been given. “Then why even do it? Dean, you don’t have to.”

“Yes, I do,” Dean lets out, hushed and defeated. His eyes shutter closed, voice so low Sam can barely hear it. “I don’t wanna keep hurting you.”

Sam balks at the ridiculous statement, feeling completely lost. “Dean, what are you talking about? You don’t hurt me.”

“Yeah, I fucking do,” he says darkly, self-loathing welling up behind his gaze. “I can see it in your face. Every single time.”

His jaw goes slack as the realization dawns on him. He’s not exactly built to take what Dean’s packing, but they make do. They work around it. At least, he _thought_ they did. Sam raises a hand up to his brother’s face, his fingers fluttering hesitantly against Dean’s cheekbone until he dredges up enough willpower to turn the gesture into an intentional caress. “Look, okay, maybe it stings a little,” he hedges, “I _guess_ , but—” He shakes his head. “Dean, that’s not the same thing as hurting me.”

“Isn’t it?” he spits.

“Jesus Christ, dude. Is that all this is? You wanna fuck me more? What, you think I’m gonna say _no_ to that? It feels _good_ , Dean. It’s my favorite fucking thing in the whole goddamn world.”

Dean slowly drags his face away from Sam’s touch, leaving his hand hanging awkwardly between them. “You wouldn’t feel it the way I would,” he whispers eventually. And Sam knows that they aren’t talking about sex anymore. “A full-on mating bond? It’s a real, tangible thing, Sammy. But betas, they can’t—” He cuts himself off and tries a different conversational track. “I wouldn’t be able to screw around with anyone else. I mean, _physically_ wouldn’t be able to. It’d be like nails on a chalkboard to me, but you—” Dean tosses him a bittersweet shrug. “It wouldn’t be the same for you. You wouldn’t even notice.”

His brother hasn’t exactly said the words out loud, but Sam’s smart enough to read between the lines. Dean wouldn’t be able to knot. Not with anyone. Not ever again. He’d be eternally shackled to a beta that couldn’t feel _anything_ that he could. Not even the positive aspects of their mating bond. The brutal reminder of their impassible differences sits heavy in his gut.

“You’re right,” Sam acquiesces after a quiet moment. “You’re right, okay? Here.” He stands up and yanks his t-shirt over his head. Dean needs to be all stupid and cuddly after knotting, and he’s being a selfish dick stirring all this up right now. “C’mon, let’s lie down, alright? Dean, c’mon.” His brother listlessly follows him over to the bed, letting Sam lead him with each tug on his wrists. “I’m not gonna bring it up again, okay?” he promises, gently unwrapping Dean from his layers, and then pulling him down until Sam can curl up in his arms. “I shouldn’t have said anything.” He scooches back until he’s freed up enough room on the mattress for Dean to fit comfortably, then settles into his brother’s embrace and shuts the fuck up.

There’s a long moment of just listening to the slow rise and fall of Dean’s chest before he breaks the silence. “I’m sorry,” Sam whispers eventually.

“For what?” Dean tosses back, just as hushed.

“Tonight, I guess.” He shifts closer and nudges his head in between his brother’s and the uncomfortably flat pillow. “Also earlier,” he mumbles into the cloth. “I don’t know, just the way I’ve been acting lately? Everything.”

Dean wraps his arms tighter around Sam’s back, tugging him in close enough to scent him. His warm breath puffs soothing and familiar over Sam’s throat, and Sam can feel his eyelids start to droop at the gentle motions. Then Dean pushes forward a little to rub his face into the crook of his neck, over and over again. It’s soothing as well, in its own weird little way. Dean does that a lot too. He’s not entirely sure why.

“Go to bed, Sammy,” his brother orders tiredly, not even bothering to flick off the room’s low lighting.

So Sam does. His brother’s lips pressing steady and soft against his pulse point as he surrenders to the slow pull of unconsciousness.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  

“They could have been witches,” Sam offers over a sip of too-bitter coffee, trying not to make a face at the taste. He’d toss in some more sugar, but they’d run out of packets somewhere between here and Maryland. “Some sort of ritual gone-wrong which ended up backlashing?”

Dean makes a sort of exhausted grumbling sound into his hand, then props his head up against his knuckles, idly knocking the toe of his fed boot into the motel table. “Doubt it,” he says. “There wasn’t any mention of an altar or anything.”

“Well, we know the bodies were burnt, at least. So, I guess it could have been some monster intent on lightly grilling its food before chowing down?” Sam gives his brother a peeved look and shifts away from the annoying kicking. “Maybe it got scared away before it could finish eating.”

“Nah, it was worse than that, man.” Dean brings his right hand up to stifle a yawn and his ring glints at the motion. “Beth said the corpses were barely more than ashes by the time the M.E.s got there.”

“Beth?”

Dean snaps his mouth shut, giving him a tight-lipped look like he doesn’t want to say it out loud. _Oh_. The coroner. Right. Sam clears his throat and adjusts his grip around his overheated paper cup. “So, what?” he asks, trying to sound casual. Like this is information from any other source. “Whatever this thing is roasted the kids until they were dead, and then just…kept cooking?”

“Far as I can tell.” Dean’s brain suddenly seems to click into gear and he glances up with an excited raise of his eyebrows. Well, as excited as six-o’clock-in-the-morning Dean can get anyway. “Hey, maybe we’re hunting a dragon!”

Sam isn’t able to rein in the amused snort at his brother’s expense. “I’m pretty sure if dragons weren’t imaginary, we’d have come across one by now. Kinda hard to maintain a low profile when you’re a giant, fire-breathing lizard. Also, why would a dragon scorch its victims until they were ash?” He scratches at a particularly prevalent itch on the back of his head. “Didn’t want the bodies to be identified, maybe?”

“Fire doesn’t nix dental records,” Dean snits, grumpy from Sam’s skepticism. “Maybe Sean Connery just had a personal grudge. Who knows?” He chugs down the rest of his coffee in one impressive go, and then slaps him on the knee. “And we ain’t gonna figure it out loitering around here.” He scoops his keys up one-handed and kicks at Sam’s ankle again, intentional this time. Then he _keeps_ doing it until Sam stands up with a muffled curse. “Get your ass in gear. The whole point of dragging me awake at this bullshit hour was so we could get to the place when it opened.”

Sam side-steps the empty cup his brother tosses in the general direction of the wastebasket, then takes another two seconds to deliberate whether it’s worth scooping up from where it rebounded off the side. Eh, whatever. The maids will get it.

“Sam.”

“Yeah, I’m coming,” he grumbles, blearily trailing his alpha— _yeah right, you **wish**_ —out the door.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

They’re smoothly eating up blacktop to the low soundtrack of Fleetwood Mac when Sam finally lets his earlier grievances creep back in to gnaw at the edges of his good mood. Dean’s got his hangover sunglasses on—seemingly more to counteract the blinding morning light than any attempt at self-medicating after a night of moderate drinking. Of course, by Dean’s standards, _Oktoberfest_ is only moderate drinking. But the mid-July heat is clearly intent on making itself known, even this early in the day, which means that his brother isn’t gonna notice Sam’s quiet moping unless he does something stupid like run his mouth off. The heat always slows Dean’s processers down to just above molasses. Humidity makes it even worse.

Sam’s still got his empty coffee cup in his lap, just for something to fiddle with, and he picks at the cardboard sleeve with a fingernail as he runs over their conversation from the night before. Dean staring at him with that infuriating look of pity splashed across his face. _“You wouldn’t feel it the way I would. Betas, they can’t—”_ Sam jerks his thoughts back before the mental echo of his brother can finish his sentence. Dean’s right, Sam knows he is, but he still can’t help but feel…well, _jilted_ , if he’s being honest about it. It’s not _his_ fault his stupid, unfair biology has decided to make his life a living hell. What is he supposed to do about it?

 _“Now here you go again. You say you want your freedom,”_ Stevie Nicks croons softly from the Impala’s speakers. _“Well, who am I to keep you down?”_

Sam flinches at the cruelty of the too-appropriate lyric and snaps out a hand to jam down the fast-forward button. His brother gives him a weird look, but doesn’t press the issue. Thank God for small favors. Or for heat-addled older siblings. He risks pulling his thumb away after a moment and the plucky guitar intro lets him know that he’s made it to the next track.

The dude starts singing this time, whatever his name is, and Sam leans back in his seat with a quiet exhale of relief. A quick glance out of the corner of his eye reveals that Dean is content enough to bop his head to this song instead, so Sam shoves the panic away and lets himself drift back into his musings. Even his brother’s ridiculous fucking cassette tapes think that Dean should be free of an aberration like him. Because that’s what Sam is. A beta. A sterile, unnatural mutation. A _freak_.

 _Roughly ten percent of the population_. That’s the standard company line. _Just because betas don’t have the same biological advantages that alphas and omegas do, it doesn’t mean that they’re worth any less to society at large. For example, there are plenty of orphaned pups looking for a loving home. Who else better to step in than you and your similarly beta mate? Clearly, it wouldn’t be appropriate for betas to fraternize with anyone possessing **healthy** genes, but another beta would be glad to share their lives with you. And that’s almost like a real, live mateship! Plus, betas can even do some of the things that alphas and omegas can! Why don’t you ask your guidance counselor for a list of jobs that would be suited to your abilities?_ Sam lets out a bitter scoff as he drags himself away from all the propagandist bullshit drilled into his head since childhood. _A place in society._ What a joke. Historically, there’s never been anything higher for betas to aspire to than quietly waiting around for alpha and omega cast-offs, whether that be jobs or lives or even _families_. Treated almost human as long as they kept to themselves and didn’t rock the boat.

Sam sneaks out a hand to settle on the warmth of his brother’s leg, needing the physical reassurance for the moment. Dean gives him a brief smile in return, but doesn’t turn his attention from the road. At least hunting had offered Sam a break from the strict enforcement of gender roles—terrifying and miserable as the rest of it may be. That is, until their blinders-on quest for the demon that killed their mom had dropped him smack dab into the middle of his own little Battle of the Sexes. ‘Special Children’. That’s what the fucker had called them. The largest grouping of betas Sam had ever seen in one place since those Beta Student Alliance meetings Brady used to drag him to. All with the exact same birthdate and freaky powers. Just like him. And didn’t he want to prove that he was the best out of all those sons of bitches? _God_ , just the thought of it still curdles his stomach to this day. If Dean and Bobby hadn’t shown up with the Colt in time… Sam shudders to think how everything could’ve ended up going down. Instead, they were left with an anticlimactically-neutralized demonic corpse, a scattering of suddenly-powerless betas, and Sam no closer to fixing his own personal problems.

He lets himself daydream about it sometimes though. About what he would’ve grown into if a yellow-eyed monster hadn’t crept into his nursery that night and shriveled up everything normal inside of him with just a few drops of tainted blood. If he would’ve ended up an omega like Mary was. If he and Dean would _fit_ the way it feels like they’re meant to. If by now, they’d be claimed and mated and happy and _normal_. Well, as normal as their lives could get anyway. Sam glances down at himself. Observes the broad span of his hand over his brother’s thigh, the way his knees are all bent up under the dash because he can’t ever really get comfortable no matter how much Dean pushes the seat back. Yeah, Sam doesn’t really have the omega physique. Maybe he would’ve been an alpha like his brother. Like his father. He snorts to himself at the thought. He and his dad had it out _plenty_ over the years, even without an extra knot in the mix. Sam can’t imagine what growing up with three mature alphas shoved into one car would’ve been like. Nightmarish, probably.

He glances over and watches as his brother changes lanes without putting his blinker on—the same, frustrating way he always does no matter how much Sam scolds him about it—and takes a moment to wonder if being the same sex as Dean would change anything between them. They get along pretty well, day-to-day. Okay, sure—they do butt heads every once in a while over a hunt or something, but not too seriously or too often. Sam wonders if that would still be the case if they were both alphas. Or if instead, they’d constantly be at each other’s throats, growling and snapping for territory. Yeah, that sounds more likely. He doubts that it would stop him from wanting to jump his brother’s bones though. Maybe the sex would be a little more feral.

“Maybe the sex would _what?”_

Sam flushes from head to toe once he realizes he’s just said that last part out loud. “Nothing,” he mumbles. “Just thinking aloud.”

Dean raises an amused eyebrow. “You got some kink for old furniture you never told me about?”

He frowns at the strange non-sequitur until he catches his brother’s eye line, twisting back to glance at the building behind them. Oh. They’re here. Sam awkwardly adjusts the cuffs of his suit jacket and tries not to blush again. “I was…thinking about something else.”

“ _Yeah_ , you were,” his brother teases obnoxiously, eyes crinkling as he grins. “You should probably keep your mind on the case though. Right, _Agent?”_ He reaches out to trail a hand over the crease of Sam’s slacks, pressure just light enough to be insufferable. “Wouldn’t want to offend our witness.”

Sam shoves his brother away before he can work him up to a full-on erection in the car. Because that’s _exactly_ the kind of stunt Dean would pull. Just to make him sweat—and be forced to awkwardly try and hide it throughout the entire line of questioning. He’d find it hilarious too, the utter bastard. “Can you stow the groping ‘til _after_ we’re done harassing people today?” Sam complains as he escapes out his side of the car.

Dean barks out a laugh and follows suit, swinging the driver’s door shut with a familiar creak of the hinge. “Only if that’s a promise you intend to keep.”

Heritage Antiques & Jewelry lies just half a block up the street from where they’d parked…and it looks exactly how Sam thought it would. In fact, it actually looks even _more_ like he thought it would than he’d even realized he was picturing. Like a still out of some old movie. Large glass windows make up most of the storefront on either side, displaying a host of ornate furnishings and Oriental ceramics. One of the panes has clearly been smashed in, and an opaque sheet of plastic has been draped across the gap, but it doesn’t take away too much from the feel. The dark green paint around the sculpted wood of the façade gives the entire place an orderly look, contrasting elegantly against the decorative brickwork of the rest of the building.

Sam casually slips his hands into his pockets and makes for the door before his brother can come up with some terrible one-liner about what they could get up to on one of the velvet fainting sofas. Or how some vintage jewelry would go perfectly with Sam’s eyes. Dean does seem the slightest bit disappointed that they’ve already cleared the store’s threshold before he can come up with something truly humiliating, and Sam marks a mental tally under his own column on the scoreboard in his head.

The place is clean, and fairly tidy for a shop that literally makes its living on selling ancient junk. The slightest odor of musty fabric hangs in the air from some of the older pieces of furniture, but the majority of the wares up for sale seem to be less inclined to collect mildew. Trinkets and porcelain vases and the like.

“Hey, you think Pinhead’s puzzle box is around here somewhere?” Dean jokes after a quick sweep of the goods.

Sam just rolls his eyes to let his brother know, in very clear terms, that he’s not half as hilarious as he thinks he is.

There’s no salesperson behind the room’s main desk, and no bell to ring them by, so Sam sets off wandering through the scattered end tables and armchairs. His brother has apparently taken interest in one of the garden statues clustered around the entrance—a nude, male omega carrying some sort of water jug over his shoulder in what’s clearly a cheap attempt to cash in on the Neoclassical style. Sam wonders if it’s even worth the stone it’s been carved out of. Or if maybe the shop owner is just hoping to pawn it off to some creep who’s interested in perving on it all hours of the day. He lets out a huff of laughter as he watches Dean circle the thing to check it out from behind. Case in point.

The whole place seems pretty much deserted and Sam’s just about to call out for some assistance when one of the store’s offerings happens to catch his attention. A pair of brilliant gemstones nestled in a clear, glass box under the main counter. On closer inspection, they actually appear to be identical. Two hollow sapphires, pale blue, and just about the size of his palm. They aren’t perfectly round—and maybe the empty space in the middle of each one is to blame for that—but their shine is flawless.

“Ah, you have very fine taste,” a faint voice wisps across the counter. Sam startles at the sound, jerking his gaze up to come face-to-face with an elderly Asian man, stooped and thin, and with a pair of white silk gloves peeking out from the darks cuffs of his expensive suit. He must be the curator of the collection. Omega, probably—going by his stature.

“Oh, no,” Sam says politely, thrown off-kilter by the man’s sudden appearance. “Sorry, I was just looking.”

“The Omega’s Tears,” the man continues kindly, clasping his hands behind his back. “Some of the rarest pieces in my collection. These are the only two sapphires exactly like this in the entire world.” He smiles at Sam, leaning in with a playful whisper. “You have no idea how long it took me to finally bring them together.”

“And why is the omega crying?” Dean asks, finally strolling over to join them. He bends over the display case for a better look and his tie slips away from his fed shirt to graze against the glass.

The curator graces them with an enigmatic smile. “Why do any of us cry?” he asks mysteriously—clearly a rhetorical question. “Because he is unhappy, perhaps?” Then the man chuckles lightly at his own dramatics. “The Tears are not named for any fable, but for the shape of the stone,” he explains, pulling the box out to rest atop the counter and opening the lid. “You see?”

The jewels sparkle in the dim light of the shop, the hollow bits in the center making them look even more delicate than they probably are. The twin sapphires are mostly oblong, tapering off to somewhat of a point at the very top, and Sam thinks they look a lot more like crystal Faberge eggs than tear drops. But, whatever. To each his own. He reaches out a tentative finger to stroke against one gleaming shell, and the curator snaps the case closed with a sharp click. “Please don’t touch,” he orders. “They’re extremely fragile.”

“Please excuse my partner,” Dean says smoothly. “He caught a stray round to the temple back in ‘04, never been the same since.” Sam glares daggers at his brother, but Dean just pulls out his fake badge like he doesn’t even notice. “I’m Agent Roeser and this is Agent Bloom. We have a few questions for you if you don’t mind, Mr.…?”

“Shen,” the man answers sedately. “Robert Shen. And of course I don’t mind, Agents. I’ve already spoken with the police, but I’d be happy to go over everything again. How can I assist you?”

Dean slips his badge back in his breast pocket, shoving a bit until it goes in. “So you’re already aware of the deaths of Ian Barton and Valerie Hayes, then? The students whose remains were found near your store earlier this week?”

“Of course,” he says with a solemn nod. “Tragic business, that.”

“Are you also aware that both Ian and Valerie’s fingerprints were found inside your shop after the night in question?”

“Yes, I am.” Shen raises a gloved hand to gesture toward the front of his store. “But that wasn’t discovered until after I’d returned from my evening to find that my glass window had been smashed in and my cash register had been emptied. I’m told that the officers who found the students’ bodies were actually the ones responding to my call about the break-in.”

“And other than the money from the register, was anything else taken?” Sam interrupts, tilting his head to indicate the rest of the man’s merchandise. “I find it hard to believe that a couple of thieves weren’t tempted by a shop full of priceless antiques.”

Shen laughs out loud at the question, a light, breathy sound. “I tend to find that one of the follies of youth is an inability to see worth in anything that isn’t plated in gold,” he says warmly. “My collection isn’t much to look at, despite its inherent value. And I keep my more expensive pieces, like those sapphires you’re so fond of, locked behind the counter. Perhaps the burglars didn’t have enough time or skill to pick the lock.”

Dean raises a skeptical eyebrow. “And why wouldn’t they just smash it, same as the window?”

Shen raps his knuckles against the counter with a knowing smile. “Bulletproof glass, Agent Roeser. A necessary precaution in these troubled times.”

Sam nods at the explanation, but his brother tosses out an amused scoff. “Yeah, well, I’d recommend looking into some of that same stuff for your storefront,” he says. “Might help for next time.”

The curator bows his head with a gracious nod. “Very wise advice. Thank you.”

“So,” Sam speaks up again, trying to redirect them back to a more useful line of questioning. “Is there any reason you can think of why your shop would be targeted specifically?” He spreads a hand out across the store. “A particular piece in your collection? Maybe something with a well-known legend attached to it?”

“Well, every worthy antique has its story, Agent,” Shen says indulgently. “But that doesn’t mean that any of my neighbors believe in fairy tales.”

That finally catches Dean’s attention. “What kinds of fairy tales?” he asks lowly, leaning in over the counter.

Shen actually looks pleased at the question. Like he never gets a chance to discuss his interests. “Every sort you can imagine,” he grins widely. “For example—” He presses a finger against the glass counter, pointing out some kind of decorative, pewter clip. “There have been whispers,” he says ominously, “passed down from generation to generation, that this particular hairpin has the ability to attract the gaze of any suitor you desire. All a young lady would need to do would be to slip the fastener into her tresses and love would be sure to follow.”

Dean hums at the story, unimpressed. “Rapey.”

Shen chuckles at the response. “Yes, well, not all fairy tales are composed of goodness and light, unfortunately.” He lifts his eyebrows with a muted, erudite sort of humor. “Especially the Germanic ones.”

Sam casts his gaze over the rest of the shop, hoping for something a little more concrete. There’s no way a hairpin roofie had anything to do with their little Freshmen Barbeque. “Anything else?”

“Let’s see,” Shen mumbles to himself, tapping a finger against his lips. “Well, that piece over there,” he points to a sturdy-looking desk, “is a Romanian writing table. It was said to be able to transfer any message to any recipient. In the blink of an eye.” He snaps his fingers dramatically, but the sound is muted by the silk. “And over here,” he says, backing up to a set of shelving hanging behind him, “we have one of the rarest pieces of my collection. An antique brass ewer, said to belong to the actual Qajar family.”

Dean spares the overrated pitcher a brief glance. “And what’s the scoop on that one?”

“Well,” Shen says, “an item belonging to a royal family of such importance would have been protected by Allah himself. Legend has it that the ‘fires of Solomon would rain down upon any soul who dared try to steal it’.” He breaks off with a self-conscious shrug, reining his excitement back in. “But, of course, I’d be hard-pressed to imagine that anyone in this day and age would attempt to rob me simply due to a myth.”

“Of course not,” Dean mutters under his breath, and Sam jabs an elbow into his brother’s side before he can say something stupid.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Shen,” he offers professionally, holding out his palm. “We’ll contact you if we have any further questions.”

Shen grasps Sam’s hand in his own arthritic one and gives it a weak shake. “Feel free to do so. I’m always here.” They manage to make it halfway across the shop before the curator speaks up again. “Oh—and good luck with your brain injury, Agent Bloom.”

Sam tosses the man a strained nod before turning back to glare at his brother. “I’m going to kill you,” he hisses under his breath, shuffling Dean out the front door with an unnecessarily forceful shove.

Dean just cackles like the jerk he is. “You pissed ‘cause I said it? Or because the guy found it believable?”

“I’m pissed ‘cause you’re an asshole.”

“Aw, baby, don’t be like that,” Dean croons. Then he sidles up closer to Sam’s side, discreetly skating a hand over his hip. “In fact, I think someone promised me some groping.”

Sam spies his chance for instant payback. “Wow, I don’t know, Dean. Might be hard for me. Y’know, with my _brain injury_ and all.”

His brother rolls his eyes and lets him be, turning his attention back to the case at hand. “So, do we think it’s weird that some random dude’s got an entire store full of cursed objects? I mean, everything but those rocks, I guess,” he corrects himself. “Practically the only thing in there he didn’t have some superstitious fable about. If they’re not magic, then why bother?”

“Maybe he just related to the name,” Sam suggests as they approach the car. “Who knows? He might have a whole shelf of benign, omega-themed artifacts in the back.”

“He’s a beta.”

Sam misses a step on his way off the curb. “Oh.” He pauses with one hand on the car door. “Then…you think they’re cursed too? Like the rest of the stuff?”

“Maybe,” his brother sighs, crossing his elbows over the Impala’s roof and catching Sam’s gaze. “Or maybe they’re just priceless, like he said. I don’t know if he realizes what his shit can actually do. Hell, maybe all that crap was just crap and the rest of his stuff doesn’t do anything at all.” Dean tosses him one last shrug, then reaches down to pull his door open. “Honestly,” he says flatly, “all I’m really interested in is the fancy bottle that’s been frying hoodlums.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

“So, I’m thinking it’s an ifrit,” Sam says the instant a fast food-laden Dean steps in through the door.

“Okay…” his brother replies slowly, dropping the bags of food onto the table with a crinkle of greasy paper. “And that is?”

“Think evil, Arabic fire genie.”

Dean makes a contemplative face as he pulls out the contents of their meal. “Specific.”

“Yeah,” Sam says distractedly, eyes glued to the webpage in front of him. “It was all that ‘fires of Solomon’ stuff that really clued me in.” Dean tosses a sandwich in his general direction and Sam barely manages to catch it before it smacks him in the face, still completely focused on the text. “Basically, they’re elementals,” he continues without missing a beat. “Created from the blood of a murder victim, and then sealed into a bottle or container—like a roach motel for spirits. They’re generally used as guard dogs for a sorcerer.” Dean doesn’t seem to be very impressed with his findings though. He just kicks at his ankle and gives him his pissy alpha glare until Sam rolls his eyes, making sure to deliberately unwrap his dinner before continuing. “The lore places them as pretty similar to djinn actually,” he says around a mouthful of fried chicken patty.

“But djinn don’t actually do the whole ‘Barbara Eden living in the lamp’ thing,” Dean reminds him, gesturing with his own burger. “Unless we’re counting leaky, abandoned warehouses as ‘magical containers’ now.”

Sam takes a minute to think as he chews. “Okay, so less literal then. Maybe they’re just tied to the specific object? I mean, they are _kinda_ like ghosts.”

His brother sucks a bit of ketchup off his thumb and nods absent-mindedly. “Makes sense I guess. So what’s the fire thing about?”

“Source of their power, apparently. Early Islamic legend states that ifrits were sustained by the…‘flames from the core of the Earth itself’,” Sam recites from the website. Then he tugs his sleeve up into his hand to wipe off the streak of grease he’d accidentally left on the screen. “Basically, their fire burns so hot that it keeps going as long as there’s enough flammable material to sustain it. Like supernatural napalm.”

“Yeesh,” Dean mutters. “I love the smell of roasting corpses in the morning.” He leans back in his chair and kicks his feet up onto the small table. “Okay, so that explains the stiffs. But how do we K.O. Robin Williams?”

“An unused, iron nail,” Sam says specifically, laughing at his brother’s ensuing reaction. “But that’s only if we’ve gotta face it head on.” He crunches his leftover trash up into a paper ball and tosses it into the empty bag, then gives Dean a casual shrug. “I’m thinking if we salt and burn the bottle, that’ll probably work too.”

Dean raises a skeptical eyebrow at him. “That a guess or a fact?” he asks through a disgusting mush of ground beef.

“Dude, how about closing your mouth when you chew?”

“How about answering the question, Sam?”

He shifts a little awkwardly in his seat and keeps his gaze on his laptop screen. “…I mean, it works on ghosts, right?”

“So, ‘guess’ then,” Dean says flatly.

“A highly educated one,” Sam insists. “More of an estimation, really.”

Judging by the look of flat disapproval scrawled all over his face, his brother isn’t exactly moved by his logic.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Sam pulls up short, snaking a hand out to latch onto Dean’s jacket until he can be sure that the shadow flickering underneath the streetlight up ahead is just that—a shadow. His brother raises an impatient eyebrow at him in return, probably assured that he’d be able to smell it if anyone actually _was_ following them, but Sam refuses to apologize for playing it safe. One day, Dean’s overconfidence in his nose is gonna fuck them up royally and he is not planning on letting that be tonight. Sam lets his fingers slip away from his brother’s coat and back into his own pockets once he’s sure the coast is clear. “So,” he continues under his breath as if they’d never been interrupted, “either Shen has no idea that some of his antiques are cursed and he’ll be completely out of our hair while we pilfer his empty shop, _or_ he knows exactly what’s going on and is gonna be waiting inside the door to blast us with a burst of lethal djinn fire the second we get there.”

Dean adjusts the strap of the duffel digging into his shoulder and continues down the sidewalk with barely a hitch in his stride. “Yeah, I’d say our odds are pretty 50-50 at this point.”

Not exactly the vote of confidence Sam had been hoping for. “Okay…” he says expectantly, stretching out the vowels, “so let’s say it _is_ the second option. How are we gonna protect ourselves from an unstoppable magic fireball?”

His brother tosses him a weak attempt at a smile. “Run like hell and hope that none of it sticks?”

“Great,” Sam mutters to himself, scraping a cigarette butt into the street with the toe of his boot. “As long as we’ve got a plan.”

Dean was less than impressed with Sam’s original salt and burn idea, so his genius back-up play is to scoop everything they can carry into their largest duffel and then toss them all into their dad’s lock-up to be forgotten about forever. It’s not exactly as safe as individual curse boxes would be, but shoved deep into a nondescript storage locker in the middle of Nowhere, New York is probably about as secure as they’re gonna get. As long as they get the ewer safely stored away, the deaths-by-burning shouldn’t be a threat anymore—and they can always keep an eye on Dover for any more weirdness in the near future. Plus, once Shen gets his bulletproof glass installed, they won’t have to worry about thievery. So maybe this’ll all blow over. _Yeah, sure._ _Like anything in their lives is ever easy._ But a man can dream, right?

They’re a few feet from the shop when Dean suddenly freezes in place, silently flinging his arm out to stop Sam in his tracks as well. Sam’s about to punch him in the arm for the childish revenge or whatever this is supposed to be until he catches sight of his brother’s face. Grim and completely serious. Whatever’s going on, it isn’t a joke. Dean catches Sam’s eyes and raises a slow hand to his ear, palm open and out, then brings it down to loosely cup his throat. _Shit_. His brother can hear voices inside…possibly a hostage. Not for the first time, Sam curses his inferior senses and does his best not to breathe too loudly. Well, at least that answers the question of Shen’s involvement.

Sam slips his pistol out of his waistband and clicks off the safety as quietly as he can. Good fucking thing Shen turned out to be a beta or this would be a whole different ball game. An alpha or omega would have already picked up their scents. Dean takes up a defensive stance near the shattered windowpane, his own gun in his hands, and tilts his head to gesture toward the back of the shop. Flanking maneuver. Sure. That makes sense. Sam gives his brother a quick, affirmative nod at the plan and slinks his way around the far corner of the building.

He manages to get the back door unlocked without any trouble and is through the storeroom and practically out into the shop proper before he can finally make out the muffled voices himself.

“What do you want from me, man? I didn’t even _do_ anything!” The tone is hushed, for all the terror soaking into the words. Male. He sounds young-ish, teenager maybe, and his voice is trembling in that sort of whisper-scream people get when they’re too terrified to yell out loud.

“Didn’t _do_ anything?” a second voice chuckles, thin and reedy with age. _Motherfucker_. That one’s Shen. Sam would bet his life on it. “You’ve broken into my store,” he continues calmly. “Just like your naughty little friends before you. What were you trying to steal this time? Your companions’ fates didn’t teach you a lesson?”

Sam edges his way around the corner until he can make out the kid Shen’s talking to. He’s gotta be eighteen or nineteen at most, with toffee-colored skin and neatly buzzed hair and tears in his almond-slanted eyes. He’s wearing a satin track jacket—like he’s trying to emulate his favorite rapper—and there’s a matching snapback hat lying upside-down at his feet. All in all, the kid looks pretty well-off. Maybe not _nouveau riche_ , but comfortable enough that he probably doesn’t need to knock over a store for money.

Shen, for his part, looks placid as still water. Amused, even. Like he’s actually enjoying the way his evening is playing out. He’s got one gloved hand out and back, palm spread threateningly over where the ewer’s still sitting on its shelf. The brass itself is glowing a bright orange—and it’s clear that the kid isn’t being held by any sort of physical force, but by what he’s afraid the old man might do if he runs. “Perhaps I shall have to teach you a second lesson…” Shen warns coldly.

Sam is violently rounding the corner into eyesight, gun up and out, before he can even think about what he’s doing. “Let the kid go, Shen,” he orders. There’s a moment of surprise as both men register his presence, but the curator’s lips slowly curl into a satisfied smile once he recognizes him.

“Ah,” he says teasingly. “Not exactly J. Edgar now, are we, _Agent?”_ Shen keeps his hand outstretched toward the ifrit, but all of his attention is on Sam now. “I thought that might be the case. Hunters then? Where’s your partner?”

“Howdy,” Dean’s voice growls from the front of the shop. He takes a few steps into the main room, then rolls his eyes in annoyance once his gaze catches on the hostage. “Oh, come _on_ ,” he groans. “What the fuck, kid? Your klepto buddies turn up dead and the first thing you do is head back to the scene of the crime? Were you trying for a three-for-one special or are you just an idiot?”

The student finally seems to get ahold of his tongue, clearly feeling safe enough now that they’re here as back-up, and turns around to snarl at Dean. “Ian and Valerie weren’t trying to _steal_ anything, man! It was a dare! It was a stupid fucking dare.”

Sam keeps his attention—and his Taurus—on Shen, careful not to let the little dispute give the man an opening. “Did the other two even try to steal anything?” he asks coldly. “Or was that just the story you fed to the cops?”

Shen chuckles darkly under his breath. “They broke into my store. Whether or not they meant anything by it, it still serves them right.” He narrows his eyes and smiles again. “ _Just desserts_ , as it were.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” the student shouts. “You’re fucking crazy, old man!”

“Dude, shut up,” Dean quietly advises, but the kid’s clearly too far gone.

“It was just a stupid game! This store had always been one of those spooky places, y’know?” he directs desperately toward Sam. “Like, there were ghost stories about it and shit. ‘Cause of all the old stuff. And I dared Ian and Valerie, ‘cause she liked him, y’know? It’s my fault.” There’s more tears in his eyes now, slipping down his face as he tangles his fingers in the hem of his jacket. “They said they were gonna stay the night. That’s all it was! And then they turned up fucking _dead_ ‘cause of this psycho!”

“Kid, shut the _fuck_ up,” Dean hisses.

“No, man! He’s _crazy!”_

But it’s already too late. Shen’s gaze has gone darkly murderous and he’s twisting his hand in the direction of his ifrit, muttering something under his breath as the brass grows ever brighter. Sam quickly glances back at the student, but the kid doesn’t even seem to notice, still intent on his tirade. Shen’s still chanting menacingly and they’re running out of time and Sam raises his gun hand to do something really fucking stupid.

The shot rings out throughout the small shop, shutting everyone up instantly. There’s about a half second of silence, and then the ewer teeters on its shelf before clanging to the floor, rolling until it hits the desk—the smoking hole in the center of the metal rendering it completely useless. Shen wrenches his head up to glare daggers at him, but Sam’s just insanely thankful that shooting the thing didn’t set the ifrit on them instead. “Iron rounds,” Sam says calmly, doing his best to cover for the mixture of uncertainty and relief in his voice. “Not exactly a nail, but I figured the basic concept was the same.”

Shen sucks in a deep breath, then tilts his narrowed gaze to the student. “Run along now, boy,” he whispers lowly.

“Go,” Dean adds forcefully, grabbing the kid by the shoulder and shoving him toward the door. His brother steps back into position the instant he’s gone, keeping his gun level with Shen’s heart. There’s another tense moment of silence as they all gauge the situation, and Sam takes a second to wonder if Dean’s ‘no killing humans’ rule extends to psycho shop owners with a bevy of dangerous cursed items at their disposal. “Nowhere to go, Shen,” his brother says eventually. Then he pulls the hammer back on his Colt with a definitive _click_. A clear threat. “You make a play for anything else, we’re gonna see what iron rounds do to _your_ insides. Got it?” Shen just regards them coolly, but Sam is in no way naïve enough to buy the act. He adjusts his grip around his own gun and keeps a bead on him. “So, you’re gonna come with us, alright?” Dean continues. “Nice and easy. We’ll take a little trip down to the police station and you can confess to the murders of the other two kids. Maybe leave out the magic fire genie stuff though.” He smiles and gestures to the man’s skull with the muzzle of his gun. “Unless you’d prefer your night to end a little early.”

Shen takes another deep breath, letting it out in a long sigh. “I suppose this is my only option?” he asks evenly.

Sam shares a quick glance with his brother, trying to keep his attention on the ancient curator. “Looks to be that way.”

“Hm.” Shen slowly slips a hand into the breast pocket of his suit, never breaking Sam’s gaze.

“Hands out of your pockets, Shen!” Dean orders. But the beta just holds his other palm out in a defensive gesture, like he’s simply reaching for a license or something. “I said _out_ , Shen! Last warning or I shoot.”

Shen pins them with a subtle grin. “I’m only trying to help. You said no funny business, right?” He pulls his hand back out, something Sam can’t make out hidden by the white silk. “Don’t let it break then.”

He launches the item at Sam’s face, viper-fast, and Sam’s immediately diving for whatever it is before it hits the ground. He manages to reach out and snag it with his left, terrified that the mystery object will burn them or poison them or do something else gruesomely horrible if it shatters—and he’s got the thing carefully clutched against him and cradled to his chest before he finally realizes that it’s safe to breathe again. Sam looks back up, expecting to see Shen’s defeat written over his face, but the man just smiles.

And then the pain starts.

Sam’s brow knits together as a sharp spike of heat punches through his lower abdomen. He grunts at the sudden cramp, slipping down to his knees and loosening his fingers until he can make out what it is he’s got in his hand. It’s pale blue and shiny. Some kind of jewel? Fuck. It’s gotta be one of those sapphires from before, but why? Sam tries to struggle back to his feet, but Shen’s already used the brief moment of distraction to turn tail and race for the front door. Another jolt of agony lances through him, and he grits his teeth as he groans through the clawing pain in his gut.

“Sammy? _Shit!”_ Dean hisses, clearly torn between dropping to Sam’s side and chasing after the psycho who did this to him.

“Go get Shen,” Sam croaks out.

“Sam—”

“ _Go!”_ he shouts. “I’ll be fine. Go shoot the fucking _bad guy_.”

Dean breaks off toward the front of the shop with a muffled curse and a hail of footsteps. “Stay there!” he throws back over his shoulder, and only the pain stops Sam from tossing back a sarcastic jab of his own.

He lets the gemstone roll from his fingers and out across the shop’s floor, hoping that breaking contact with the thing will stop the torture. Thankfully, that seems to do the trick. The cramping in his abdomen gradually eases off and Sam lets his head thump back against the carpeting with a sigh of relief. He’s still lying there, breathing heavily as he recuperates, when he hears his brother slip back in through the broken window. “You get him?” he asks tiredly.

“No,” Dean grumbles in frustration, still picking his way across the shop. “Asshole disappeared somehow. Couldn’t even pick up a trail. And yeah,” Dean says, “I know betas don’t smell quite as strong as normal people do, but—uh, shit,” he glances at Sam in apology. But Sam’s too exhausted to call him out on it. He just waves a hand in forgiveness, then lets it drop back onto his chest. “Well, anyway,” Dean continues, a little more subdued. “What I meant was, there was no scent at all. Like, at _all_. Fucking voodoo shit if I’ve ever seen it.” He finally makes his way over to Sam and drops down to his haunches. “How about you?” he asks, knocking his hand against Sam’s bicep. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I—” Sam cuts himself off with a frown as the most amazing thing he’s ever smelled starts drifting in around the both of them. Warm and heady and perfect. It completely takes his breath away and Sam has to physically shake himself before he’s clear-headed enough to speak again. “Can you smell that?”

“What?” Dean asks, twisting his head to glance around the shop. “The omega? That was the student. He split the second Lo Pan let him go.”

“What? _No_ ,” he hisses, using the hand his brother’s holding out to leverage himself up to sitting. “The—I don’t know. _God_ , it’s driving me crazy. How can you not smell it? It’s so strong.”

Dean leans in closer, brow furrowed in concern. “Sam, what are you talking about? This place doesn’t smell like anything other than omega and old dust.”

Sam’s hand latches out without permission from his brain, fingers tangling in his brother’s t-shirt and yanking him closer until he can shove his entire face against the base of Dean’s throat. He’s practically tearing the seams in Dean’s collar before he even realizes what he’s doing.

“Uh, dude?”

“Why is—” He pulls away, eyes narrowed in confusion before the scent reels him back in, mindless and enthralled. “It’s coming from _you_. Why do you smell like…?” Sam sucks in another breath, and then lets it out in a strangled moan as all of his joints buckle at once, nearly dropping him on his back again. Dean barely manages to catch him before Sam accidentally chokes him out, but he still can’t force his fingers to unlatch from Dean’s collar. It’s everywhere. Surrounding him in the world’s most irresistible fog. Driving him so crazy he can barely think. It’s like a haze of musk and sex and that little tingling _zing_ you get in your nose from the smell of sliced hot peppers. “ _Fuck_ ,” he breathes, dragging his lips over the dip of his brother’s collarbone. Unable to do anything other than try to lose himself in that addictive scent.

“Sammy, what are you doing?” Dean’s eyes grow huge in his head as he comes to a slow realization. “Are you—are you _scenting_ me?”

“What?” Sam snorts disdainfully. “No. I can’t do that. I’m just—” He suddenly tears at Dean’s jacket, needing it out of the way. Needing it gone so that he can get at more of that perfect smell. “I dunno,” he pants. “I just— I feel like I need to do this right now, okay? That’s all.” He finally gets Dean stripped to just his t-shirt—hands working practically of their own accord—and maybe it’s hotter in here than he thought it was because he can feel an insistent moisture gathering at the backs of his thighs. And Sam does feel kinda warm. Feverish, even. A bit of misplaced sweat isn’t enough to deter him though, barely even a blip on his mental radar when that _scent_ is still hanging in the air, doing its best to drive him wild. He slips his hands under Dean’s shirt and buries his face in his brother’s neck again, and Sam doesn’t even realize how turned on he is until he can feel his cock straining rock-hard up against the zipper of his jeans. More sweat seems to collect at the crease of his ass and thighs and he’s still intent on ignoring it when Dean suddenly goes completely, _utterly_ motionless.

“ _Sam_ ,” he whispers. Sam hums distractedly in response, latching onto Dean’s throat with his mouth and tongue as his hips rock up in little, insistent pulses against his brother’s. “Sam, stop,” Dean croaks. He gets his hands around Sam’s shoulders and forces him back down. “Sammy, **_stop!_** _”_

Sam freezes in place, muscles locking down obediently even as his brain (and other parts) are still intent on fucking Dean stupid. “What?” he whines, trying to force his limbs into action again. “Dean, why are we stopping?”

Dean just gapes at him, clearly equally as shocked at his immediate submission as Sam is. Or, as he _would_ be if every single cell in his body wasn’t screaming at him to fuck, fuck, _fuck right now_. “It did something to you,” his brother whispers. “He did something to you. With that _thing_.”

“What?” Sam tries to blink through the haze coating his brain. “What thing? The sapphire?” Dean’s hands are absently stroking down along Sam’s shoulders now, somehow caught up in whatever this is as well, and Sam lets out a low moan as he arches into the touch. “No, it stopped,” he says assuredly. “I let it go and the pain stopped.”

“ _Yeah!_ After it already—” Dean breaks off with a sharp growl, tossing his head in frustration. “You smell like an omega, Sam,” he snarls. “Why else would you smell like a fucking _omega?”_

The tone of worry running through his brother’s words finally manages to pierce through the fog, and a chill runs down Sam’s spine. “The Omega’s Tears,” he breathes, eyes wide with terrified understanding. “That’s what he called them. They—” Sam twists around suddenly, one hand still latched onto his brother like a lifeline. “How can you tell for sure? Dean, how can we—?”

Dean just grips his panicking wrists in his hands, silently holding them down to the carpet and pressing until Sam gets the memo. He keeps his gaze locked on Sam’s, steady and reassuring, as he undoes his fly and slips a careful hand down the back of his jeans. Sam can’t help but let out a little, muffled cry as Dean’s calloused fingers sweep electric over the tender, puffy rim of his asshole, his ring brushing cold against Sam’s overheated skin, and it shouldn’t _feel_ like that. _It’s not supposed to feel like that. What the fuck did Shen do to him?_

Of course…he knows _exactly_ what’s been done to him. Dean just said it not ten seconds ago, after all. And as his brother slides his hand back out into the open air, Sam knows what he’s going to see before he even sees it. Slick. Clear and wet, and clinging to the tips of Dean’s fingers. An omega’s slick.

 _His_ slick.

“ _Jesus fucking Christ_ , Sam,” Dean whispers under his breath, gaze fixed unblinkingly on the wetness coating his skin. “You’re a—” He cuts off with a hitched breath and his fingers twitch toward his mouth. The movement is hardly even noticeable, barely a flick of the muscle…but it’s easily the hottest thing Sam’s ever seen in his life. He waits with bated breath as Dean slowly brings the hand up to his lips, his eyes still glued to the pornographic evidence of Sam’s want—of Sam’s _need_ for him—until he finally makes contact, the tip of his tongue sneaking out for a taste. They both let out twin moans of filthy arousal as Dean greedily sucks the rest of his fingers into his mouth. His brother loosing another rough groan as he licks Sam’s essence from his own skin.

Sam can already feel himself getting wet again, his body leaking warm slick to make up for the share that his brother’s already consumed. “ _Dean_ ,” he begs, his voice and fingers trembling as he reaches out for his mate. _His mate._ “Dean, please.”

Dean surges back over him with a low roar, ripping at Sam’s shirt and jacket with absolutely no regard to anything other than tearing them to pieces until they’re out of the way. Sam is letting out these little, breathy pants at each strong tug of his brother’s hands, plastering himself up against Dean’s chest the second he gets the constricting material off. He’s already working at peeling off his jeans before Sam is slammed with an abrupt moment of clarity.

“Wait, _wait_ ,” he says, half-heartedly trying to still Dean’s hands. “Dean, we’re still in the store. What if that kid called the cops?”

His brother lets out another displeased growl, wrenching himself away just far enough that he can snatch up the tattered remains of their discarded clothing. He collects any evidence they were here, grabs both their guns, then forcefully pushes Sam toward the front door. “Car,” he orders. “Now.”

“Dean—”

“ _Now_.”

Sam shuts the hell up and does as his brother says—both of them barely suitable for being in public as they frantically stumble down the sidewalk and back to where they’d parked. Dean violently flings their assorted belongings into the front seat, then wrenches the back door open and shoves Sam inside, stripping his own t-shirt off and following after him with a possessive snarl. Sam gets a single second to breathe as Dean twists to slam the door shut against prying eyes, and then he’s on him again, yanking at Sam’s jeans and boxer-briefs, stripping him just bare enough for Dean to get at what he needs—and _oh God, Sam can smell his own slick_. Not just the musky tang that lingers around Dean whenever he comes back from one of his date nights without showering, but his actual _arousal_. It’s sweet— _too_ sweet almost. Cloying. But with a sharp bite that undercuts the rest of the syrupy aroma. Like burning sugar.

And Dean seems to be lost in that same single-minded desperation Sam was at his scent earlier because he’s suddenly lunging forward to bury his face in between Sam’s thighs. He lets out a choked yelp at the sensation, his hands sporadically clenching against Dean’s back as his brother licks a broad stripe over his twitching hole. It slices through him like bells and whistles, lighting his body up like a pinball machine as Dean moans and wriggles his tongue deeper into Sam’s core. Eating him out like he’s never been more desperate for anything in his life. Teeth nipping at his rim and wet, messy sounds echoing off the car windows as he shoves his face even closer. It feels like fucking _magic_ —sinful and glorious—but it isn’t necessary for once. Sam’s already there. He’s ready and he _needs_. Dean seems to come to the same conclusion because he pulls back after a few moments, holding himself up on trembling arms as he slowly, _ravenously_ meets Sam’s gaze.

“Holy fuck,” Sam groans at the sight of his brother’s face. He’s covered in slick. Just _covered_ in it. A glaze of slippery gloss from the plush swell of his top lip all the way down to where it’s dripping off his chin. That’s all Sam’s. _He_ did that.

Dean crawls forward on his hands, a predatory gleam in his eyes as he reaches out to stroke Sam’s cock as well—apparently not satisfied until he’s strung-out and desperate and needy on both ends. His brother freezes once he gets his hand on him though, a flicker of confusion sweeping across his expression before he glances down to check. Dean swallows hard, his jaw working silently as he just stares, and Sam anxiously follows his gaze down to see what the matter is…

He lets out a harsh choking sound the second he catches sight of himself, and Dean has to hold him down before he cracks his head against the ceiling of the car. His dick is noticeably smaller than it was before. Well, not _smaller_. Slimmer. Still fairly oversized for your typical omega, but different enough that it sends a terrifying dip of vertigo lancing through him. Because it’s not like he’d need it, right? Nothing more than a channel for female alphas now. Like his ass is for males. Urethra’s probably a little wider now too, to make room for an ovipositor. Sam lets out a manic sort of not-quite-laugh and digs his fingernails harder into his brother’s arms. One Earth-shattering event and his brain tosses him right back to seventh grade Sex Ed. What kind of a fucking coping mechanism is that?

“ _Jesus_ ,” Dean whispers roughly, the word ripped from his throat as he commiserates. Then he glances back to catch Sam’s eyes, surprisingly hesitant. “You alright?”

“Yeah, I’m alright. I—” Sam breathes deep and reaches out to drag Dean in closer, letting his addictive scent drive every bit of unpleasantness out of his mind. “I’m okay.”

“You sure?” Dean asks quietly.

Sam closes his eyes and nods against his brother’s forehead. “Yeah, I just…” The _desire_ starts to creep its way back up his spine, the brief moment of reprieve snatched away as his brother’s closeness and heat make themselves known again, tugging at Sam’s parts and sinking into his bones. “I’m gonna need you to fuck me, okay?” He opens his mouth against Dean’s cheekbone, dragging his teeth along the overheated skin. “It—God, I don’t know—it’s like it _aches_ ,” Sam moans, pressing closer into his brother’s arms. “I just really, _really_ need you to fuck me right now. Please?”

“ _God_ , Sammy.” Dean surges back in to kiss him, and Sam loses himself in the wet, savage press of tongues and teeth and the unexpected taste of his own slick. “Anything,” he says into Sam’s mouth. “Anything you want.” Dean pulls away to meet his gaze, and that hungry look is back in his eyes. “Turn over,” he growls, barely more than a whisper. And it sends a delicious shiver through his entire body.

Sam’s usually on top whenever they do it this way—Dean always insisting on being able to see his face to make sure he’s not in too much discomfort—but a heated flush rockets through him at the idea of doing this for real. Like alphas and omegas do. The way Dean does this with other people. Sam does his best to assume a suitable position while Dean tugs his own jeans off, but apparently it isn’t fast enough for his brother’s liking, because he’s grabbing at his hips a second later, fingers biting bruises into his skin as he flips him. Manhandling Sam where he wants him on the leather seat and yanking his ass up for better access. Like an _omega_. _Christ_.

Dean lines them up until his hot breath is washing over the shell of Sam’s ear, and Sam only presses back into his touch. Eager and wanting and so fucking ready. There's no need for lube. Not with Sam as wet as he is. No time-consuming prep. No careful, probing fingers and arduously slow-going. No pain. No slight sting as Dean pushes inside. Just fucking _bliss_. Dean taking all the longing away and replacing it with bone-searing pleasure in its stead. He fills him up entirely with one, slow thrust, and Sam lets out a strangled sound once his brother finally bottoms out. Because they fit together perfectly. Like everything he’s ever dreamed.

“ _Jesus_ , Sammy,” Dean lets out in a pained breath. Almost a whimper. “Holy shit.”He drops his forehead against Sam’s neck and slowly drags his hips back, the sensation as exquisite as it is torturous. His thick cock stretching Sam to the breaking point—until he’s certain there’s no way Dean can go any further without him tearing—and then leaving him achingly empty again in its wake. Again and again. Gradually picking up speed until his very breath is being forced out of his lungs with each thrust of his brother’s hips.

And Sam can’t even summon up the words to ask for more. Left deaf and dumb under the sheer magnitude of arousal cascading through his body. Every one of his senses narrowing down to a blinding pinprick of white light, leaving him unable to register anything other than pure _sensation_. He’s never felt like this before. Waves upon waves of absolute pleasure crashing against each nerve ending until Sam can’t hold it back any longer and, embarrassingly, he comes—hot and wet against the dark leather below him.

Dean stiffens the moment he shoots off. Every muscle going instantly, devastatingly still. Like he’s scenting chum in the water. Sam bets that if he could see his brother’s eyes right now, they’d be as dark as a demon’s. Then Dean suddenly growls, clawing his fingers into Sam’s hips and bucking forward with another savage thrust. “ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses through bared teeth. “ _Fuck, Sam_.”

Then he’s back to fucking him for real. Strong, ruthless punches of his hips until Sam is writhing and crying out again. In even more want. His brand-new cock valiantly struggling against human limits as it impossibly twitches and strains its way back to full hardness. _Because holy shit, he’s a fucking omega now_. But Sam doesn’t have time to marvel over the hardware. His arms are awkwardly trying to find some sort of traction against the car door as Dean continues to spear him deep. Beautiful and agonizing and perfect. He manages to slip his hand into the metal of the left side ashtray, plastic army man pinching the skin of his fingers as something fat and incessant starts pushing up against the stretched-taut rim of his hole, begging for entrance. No, not begging. _Forcing_ its way in, permission or no. _Dean’s knot_ —Sam realizes sluggishly. _Jesus fucking Christ, it’s his knot._ And he wants it. Holy fuck, he wants it so fucking bad.

His brother finally manages to shove himself inside of Sam with a strangled curse, his swollen knot slipping in with a muted _pop_ and another surge of physical pleasure. Because Dean is suddenly pressing thick and unyielding against his sweet spot. Relentless, as he crushes Sam against his chest and jams himself in as deep as he can go and finally _comes_ —slicking Sam’s insides with a choked shout and another strong clench of his arms. The hot, wet pulse of his brother’s release crashes over his inner walls, and Sam _somehow_ orgasms for a second time, gasping for air. Coming weak and almost dry onto the already-sullied bench seat.

Dean is still moaning behind him when Sam eventually comes back to himself, his hips twitching involuntarily, tugging at where they’re locked together as if he’s unconsciously testing the strength of their tie. His teeth scrape tantalizingly against the back of Sam’s neck—probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it—but Sam feels a bolt of yearning race through him at the prospect.

“ _Do it_ ,” he urges, voice raspy as it escapes his parched throat. He presses back against his brother as best he can, begging with his body as well as his words. Disgustingly, helplessly obsequious. “Do it, Dean. _Please_.”

But Dean seems to come back to himself right at the worst possible moment. He sucks in a long, slow inhale, then presses a careful kiss to Sam’s nape, right where he’d been considering marking him. Tender and loving. It’s unfathomably cruel. “C’mere,” he says quietly, hands slipping down Sam’s front to curl over his spent dick. As if a reach around can make up for everything Dean can’t _(won’t)_ give him.

Sam shies away from the gentle touch though. More out of concern for his physical wellbeing than passive-aggressive sullenness. Because, God, he’s gonna _die_ if he comes again this soon. “Dean, I can’t,” he whimpers.

“You can,” his brother shushes him, wrapping careful fingers around Sam’s erection-that-won’t-quit and dropping a line of wet kisses along the curve of his neck. “I promise you can.”

Unbelievably, Dean manages to bring him off again—three back-to-back orgasms in under an hour—and Sam wouldn’t be surprised to find that all his bones had melted come morning, given his seeming inability to do more than fall back into his brother’s warm embrace. Dean doesn’t seem to mind though, gently shifting them both onto their sides on the narrow seat and cuddling him from behind. Arms locked tight around Sam’s chest as he reverently whispers smothered endearments into the curve of his shoulder. His hips keep pumping every so often as he continues to empty himself into Sam’s new plumbing—and God, if that thought doesn’t send a sick thrill of both lust and terror up his spine. Knotted and tied, like they’re mates. _Mates_. Jesus. And it’s as if Sam never truly knew what the word meant before this exact moment. Like every way he’d tried to categorize the concept before was just a pale shadow of what this thing could truly be. An instinctual, animalistic craving. A blind, all-encompassing _need_. He wonders if this is what Dean feels like all the time, every second, or if the new omega hormones have cranked things up for his brother too.

Dean interrupts Sam’s inner monologue to spread a possessive palm over the breadth of his lower abs—and something rolls sticky at the back of his brain, niggling at the edges of his attention. It’s an unpleasant thought, carrying an underlying thread of worry in it, so Sam shoves it away. Flits at it like an insect buzzing too close to his ear. He’s not nearly awake enough to give it the proper focus it deserves and there’s no reason to borrow trouble when he’s feeling so deliciously warm and sated and _filled_. Sam presses back against the firm curve of Dean’s chest until his brother sighs and wraps his arms even tighter around him. Then he lets the heavy tendrils of exhaustion drag him down into a deep and dreamless sleep.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

 

 _Contentment. Sweet, as it permeates the air around them, rising like warm tar from heated asphalt._ Sam settles into the peaceful feeling, basking in the solid comfort that seems to be surrounding him. There’s a low groan from over his right shoulder, and then a lackluster twitch along the back of his knee, like they’ve fallen asleep somewhere dumb and Dean’s regretting the resulting leg cramp. Sam allows himself a quick mental chuckle and turns his face back into the sun-warmed leather he’s apparently been using as a pillow, not yet ready to face consciousness. Dean shifts against his back, probably looking for a more comfortable way to stretch out his legs, then suddenly goes still. _The pick-up of a heartbeat. A hint of stress. Biting and acrid. Slowly starting to bleed into the cooler menthol-wisps of concern._

“Sammy.”

Sam makes a grumbly noise and turns his head further away from the sun. It’s way too early. Dean can deal with whatever bullshit it is that he wants to complain about on his own. Or at a more human hour. _Fondness. The citrus tang of fresh fruit blending into the earlier worry, softening it._

“Sam, come on,” Dean prods softly, slipping his hands away from Sam’s chest and shaking his shoulder gently. “ _Sam_. Wake up.”

“What?” Sam manages to grate out past his gummy throat. It sounds more like _“whmarf”_ to his ears—the words muffled against the seat the way they are—but his brother seems to understand him fine.

Sam can hear Dean swallow hard behind him, his throat-clicking mutedly. Huh. That’s a little weird. Then Dean shakes him again. “C’mon, man,” he says, early morning rasp shading his voice. “What do you remember?”

“Remember from what?” Sam mumbles sleepily.

“Last night, Sammy.” Dean trails hesitant fingers down the back of Sam’s arm and shifts a little where they’re still connected below the waist. A soft weight tugs at his rim at the motion. From _inside_ of him. _From where they’re still connected._ And Sam is instantly wide awake.

“ _Motherfucker_ ,” he breathes, eyes wide with disbelief as he immediately tries to leverage himself up to his elbows.

Dean lets out a hissing sound from behind him. “Sam—shit. _Ow_. Hold on a sec.” He wraps a staying hand around his shoulder— _sit still; a command, and Sam obediently freezes in place—_ and carefully draws his hips back, Dean’s now-soft dick slipping easily from the looser cling of Sam’s ass. _Holy shit. That’s not how it’s supposed to—_

Sam wrenches himself away from his brother the instant he’s free and winds up plastered against the back of the front seat, one knee thunking into the footwell as he braces his hands against the side doors. “How?” he spits out, his breath coming a little too fast. “How could—?” Sam shakes his head and changes his mind. Freaking out isn’t going to solve anything. “What should we do?”

Dean just stares sympathetically at him for a moment. Which is a pretty fucked-up juxtaposition against the dried remains of Sam’s fluids from last night still streaked across his jaw and lightly flaking off his morning stubble. _That cold, minty scent is leaking out around them again. Worry_. And Dean can probably hear the frantic pounding of Sam’s heart, given the sudden carefulness of his tone. “It’s not a big deal, alright?” he says, reaching out to wrap his hand around the closest thing he can reach. Sam’s left knee. “We’ve dealt with way stranger than this, man.”

“Not _to_ us, Dean,” Sam snits, yanking his leg away and stubbornly ignoring the way it sends him careening deeper into the footwell. “We have _never_ had anything like this happen—” He breaks off with another shallow gasp for air and slams his head back against the front seat, trying to control his panic. Closing his eyes and calming his breathing. _In and out. Count it off. Four seconds in…eight out. Good. Again._

Dean is still frozen in place when Sam eventually pulls himself together enough to look, concern creasing his brow and fingers twitching lightly like the desire to comfort him is a physical need. Needing to comfort him due to the sheer, unbelievable enormity of what’s just happened. Because now _he’s— Christ, he can’t even finish he thought._ But Sam has to know for certain, terrifying as the answer might be. He has to make sure he didn’t dream everything. Now that they’re facing each other in the sober light of day. Sam meets his brother’s stare and hesitantly trails one of his own hands across the stretch of a bare thigh. His mouth falling open in shock as he slowly traces his fingers over the new, unfamiliar parts of his anatomy. The rim of his asshole is puffier than it should be, more sensitive. It's sending thrills of arousal jolting through him every time he even brushes against it and already starting to get wet again at just the sight of Dean, rumpled and groggy in the early morning sunshine. Gazing at him with protectiveness in his bleary eyes. They’d been connected the whole night. He’d fallen asleep in his brother’s arms, tied together and sheltered from the world. The word _‘mate’_ twinges through Sam once more, painfully adamant, and he lets out a hitched sigh at the thought. And is blindsided by the unexpected spike of _lust_ that suddenly pierces through the air. _The same spicy, musky scent from the night before. Potent and unyielding. Wrapping around him completely as it tempts him in closer._

Sam’s brows instantly draw together in response, studying Dean’s expression carefully. “Wait,” he says slowly. “Are you—?” But he doesn’t even need to finish his sentence. Sam doesn’t know how or why, but he can read every single one of his brother’s emotions. He’s only just noticed, but…he’s been doing it this whole time. Last night too. He can _smell_ it. “Are you seriously _horny_ right now?” he asks incredulously.

Dean remains completely motionless for half a second, then lets out an unconvincing half-laugh and tries for a smile. “What? No.” He pulls a face and shifts up against the back of the seat. “Of course not,” he says, pressing away even further. “I’m worried or whatever.”

Sam’s eyes narrow as he pulls in another whiff of that intoxicating scent, taken completely aback by what he’s suddenly capable of. He’s always known that omegas’ noses were sensitive—even more so than alphas’—but being logically aware of something and experiencing it firsthand are two completely different things. “Holy shit, you _are_ ,” he says, floored. Leaning in closer to surround himself in Dean’s mouthwatering arousal. “I can tell when—”

Dean’s hand has somehow found its way up to Sam’s lower back, easily supporting his weight as it rubs little, suggestive circles into the skin there. “Tell what, Sammy?” he asks quietly, his pupils swollen dark. His familiar voice rumbling low like comfort and safety and everything Sam’s ever wanted.

“I can tell…” Sam swallows hard and brings his hands up to absently trace over Dean’s jaw. The strong column of his neck. “Can tell what you’re feeling.” He’s wet again. So wet that he must be dripping onto his brother’s thighs. “Smells like…” Sam can’t hold it back any longer. Doesn’t even want to. He descends onto Dean with a cut-off groan, biting and sucking every hint of their earlier coupling from his brother’s lips. The remainder of his own slick tastes pungent as it passes warm between their tongues—and Dean surges up against him in response, giving every bit as good as he’s getting as they go at each other like animals. Tearing and clawing at every bit of skin they can reach. Brutal and incredible

“So perfect,” Dean manages to hiss out in between frantic kisses. “My perfect omega.” He drags Sam up onto his lap, wrestling with his not-inconsiderable mass for a brief moment before he’s lining them up again and yanking Sam down onto his erection with a feral snarl. The stretch is gorgeous and all-encompassing, and Sam can’t help but let out a long, keening moan in return. Answering the call of his brother’s body with his own.

Their second round of sex ends up as savage and wild as their first was sensual and tender. Sam rips at Dean’s shoulders with his nails and Dean scores furrows down his back in return, and by the time his brother’s knot is pushing into him, Sam has already come twice. Dean’s pecs are scored with angry lines of Sam’s doing, gleaming bright red underneath the messy smear of his ejaculate. Clear, like an omega’s. His brother’s chest heaving as he pants through his own unending orgasm.

Sam’s arms tremble for a slight moment in the aftermath, and then he collapses under the force of his own expenditure. Lets Dean support his weight, cradling him close as he shoots into Sam’s still-fluttering hole. Long, protracted pulses of come. Filling him wet and warm as Dean’s cock continues to throb against his inner muscles. “Jesus Christ,” Sam sighs exhaustedly, once he can find his voice again.

His brother doesn’t do anything but moan in return, his face shoved into the crook of Sam’s neck as he voices his agreement into the sweaty skin. His hips hitch under a particularly intense shudder, and Dean’s arms clench around his waist with another groan, tugging him in even closer. Holding him tight through it all.

“Y’know, Dean,” Sam mumbles sourly after a minute, trying to shift his legs into a more comfortable position. He barely misses skimming his head on the Impala’s ceiling. “I hate to say it, but I doubt all this fucking is actually accomplishing anything.” Sam’s thighs are spread wide over his brother’s and the resulting curve of his spine is starting to kill his back. He tries to move again, but another painful twinge shoots through his lats at the motion. “ _Dean_ ,” he whines.

“Yeah, sorry, sorry,” Dean says distractedly, his stupid alpha hormones clearly still focused on where he’s coming his brains out through his dick. “I gotcha. Hold on.” He gets them awkwardly situated back against the bench seat, Sam lying against the now-sticky leather, knees bent and spread, as Dean props his own upper body up on his elbows. And _shit_ is his brother gonna throw a hissy-fit about the state of the car once he fully comes back to himself. “That better?” Dean asks, bringing a hand back to cushion Sam’s head against the door.

Sam’s bad mood wilts a little under the considerate gesture. Or maybe it’s just the slowly increasing heat of the car as the summer sun continues on its upwards arc. “We’re supposed to be focusing on fixing this,” he gripes. “Not jumping each other’s bones at every opportunity. I mean, _fuck_.” He flicks an angry hand toward the light shining in through the window. “We’re basically out in public, man. This is freaking ridiculous. Since this happened, we’ve literally been tied more often than we’ve been apart.” Sam’s own words send a _frisson_ of residual arousal shuddering through him and he slams his eyes shut in self-disgust at his body’s stupid, unmanageable reactions.

But his brother doesn’t say anything mocking. And a few seconds later, Sam can feel a heavy blanket being draped over their lower bodies. The old, ratty wool-blend that they keep in the backseat for cold nights with no vacancies. Almost suffocating in the stifling heat, but immensely welcome as a shield from potential passersby. Sam’s eyes flutter open again at the surprising thoughtfulness. “Y’know,” Dean points out gently, “it ain’t like this is the first time someone’s ever mated in public.”

Sam feels a seed of resentment take root in his chest. “Yeah, well, that doesn’t mean it has to be _us_.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean sighs after a moment, golden in the sunlight and incomparably gorgeous as he leans down to press a soft kiss to his forehead. “I’m sorry, Sammy.”

And the last vestiges of Sam’s irritation immediately wash away. “Not your fault,” he says back, just as hushed. He slowly crawls his hands over Dean’s chest, avoiding most of the sticky mess, until the pads of his fingertips come to rest over his brother’s heart. Sam takes a deep breath and lets the steady beat help soothe his restless nerves. “How long d’you think we’ll be like this?” he asks.

Dean sweeps a thumb along his hairline. “S’usually about twenty minutes.”

Sam blinks at the quick answer. “Oh.” Of course Dean would know. Why is he even remotely surprised by that? His brother has done this with plenty of other people. It’s not like this is new for _him_. He’s probably like this with everyone. Exactly the same.

“Sam, I—”

The unexpected noise breaks through Sam’s stupid moment of self-pity. “What?” he prompts when it looks like Dean isn’t planning on finishing his sentence.

Then there’s a long stretch of awkward silence. “Nothing,” Dean eventually says. He shakes his head and tosses Sam a fleeting smile. “Forget it.”

Sam side-eyes his brother for a moment, but reluctantly lets it go. Dean will only open up if he feels like it. Anything else is more difficult than trying to pull teeth from a rabid wolverine. Only, Dean’s more likely to bite. Sam curls his fingers where they’re pressed up against his brother’s chest and tries to relax, allowing the sea of churning hormones to flood through him. He’d always thought it was cute when Dean was the one tangled up in it, the need for skin contact after sex just another alpha quirk that Sam had quickly learned to live with. He’d found it funny, even. His surly, standoffish brother so easily reduced to a clingy mess. But now that Sam’s caught in the riptide himself, it’s harder to laugh about it.

He doesn’t even realize the low, plaintive whine is coming from _him_ until Dean presses in closer, wiggling his hands underneath Sam’s back until he can wrap his arms around him. “I’m here, sweetheart,” he says, letting their foreheads knock against one another. “I’m right here.”

“Feels weird,” Sam groans. He clenches his legs tighter around Dean’s hips to force him closer, but the little, yearning _tug_ inside of him doesn’t abate until Sam tilts his own head back. Exposes his neck to the alpha above him. The door handle digs into his scalp at the motion, but something about it feels right. Makes the antsy crawling in his gut finally go away.

Dean slams his eyes shut at the offer of Sam’s bared throat, wrenching his face to the side. “ _God_ , Sammy,” he says with a breathy growl. “How am I supposed to cool down when you’re doing shit like that? Thought you wanted us to untie, not try for round three.”

“Can’t help it,” Sam says shakily. “Can’t help it, I’m sorry.”

“Distract me.”

“What?”

“I need you to distract me,” Dean grinds out. “Talk about something stupid. Or boring.”

Sam wants to roll his eyes at his brother’s limited problem-solving skills, but obeys anyway. Does his best to focus them back on work. “We need to fix this. Maybe—” He breaks off to swallow. “Maybe if we can find the sapphire?”

Dean’s eyes are still closed, but he nods against his shoulder. “Guess we could burn it or something. Or maybe you just need to touch it again.” He lets his head drop to rest fully against Sam’s collarbone. “Where’d you leave it?”

“It’s in the shop,” Sam says, trying to make some sense of the jumbled, heated flashes of memory from last night. “I think. I let it roll off somewhere.”

“Great,” his brother mutters. “Don’t suppose you can do me any better than ‘somewhere’?”

Sam wriggles underneath Dean’s weight in annoyance, then shifts right back when the movement takes them too far apart. “I was kinda focused on other things at the moment,” he snits. “Like how my _internal organs_ were painfully rearranging themselves. And then we both ended up getting a little distracted after that,” he says pointedly.

“Alright, fine,” Dean grumbles defensively, risking a sidelong glance. “No need to get so pissy.” He turns his focus back to where they’re still joined and carefully pulls his hips back to test the strength of their tie. “As soon as we’re free, we can head back in,” he says. “Try and find the thing before Shen shows up again to snatch it.”

Sam’s eyes go wide at the blatant short-sightedness of the plan. “Dean…we smell like—” He flaps a hand between them to illustrate, but his brother’s mouth just tightens at the corners in response. “Which you’re well aware of,” Sam continues with a tense sigh. “Because of course you are.”

Dean gives him an apologetic look. “Smarter than going all the way back to the motel to freshen up first. That’s just giving Shen more time to beat us to the punch.”

Sam groans at the logical reasoning and knocks his head back against the door. “Great. Just friggin’ great.”

“You wanna stay in the car while I check it out?” Dean asks sympathetically.

But Sam flinches at the suggestion. “ _No_ ,” he blurts out reflexively. “I don’t want—” He manages to cut himself off in time, but the _“…to be separated from you”_ can be read loud and clear in the ensuing silence. Just the thought of being ripped away from Dean, this soon after their mating— _but not really though, you’d need to be a **real** omega for that_ —sends cold anxiety trickling down Sam’s spine.

Dean swallows again and brings his hands around to gently sweep over what he can reach of Sam’s sides and belly. “Yeah, okay,” he says softly, and it comes off like he’s reassuring himself just as much as Sam. “We’ll go in together.”

Something about the calming motions of his brother’s fingers dredges up that fluttering, momentary bit of worry from last night, but Sam can’t quite grasp the thought. He’d been nervous about something before he’d fallen asleep. What was it? Sam pokes at the memory like a sore tooth until he’s finally able to wrap his brain around what exactly was bothering him. _Dean’s hand spread out over his lower stomach, rough and broad and warm._ And every single one of Sam’s bones suddenly turns to ice at the realization. “Holy shit,” he whispers, eyes round with terror.

“What?” Dean frowns at him in concern— _that minty smell drifting out around them again_. “What’s wrong?”

“O-omega,” Sam manages to choke out after a few tries.

His brother just lifts an underwhelmed eyebrow. “Uh… _yeah_ , Sam. That’s kinda what we’ve been talking about for the last few minutes.”

“ _Omega_ , Dean,” Sam repeats tersely. “Omega, as in ‘able to have _pups_ ’.”

His brother’s jaw goes slack the second he catches on. _The scent of cold sweat and fear._ “Holy shit,” he echoes. “No. There’s no way. Maybe…” His mouth works silently as his brain stutters and starts over the potentially Earth-shattering thought. “Maybe it doesn’t count? Maybe because it’s still… Or maybe it won’t—” A sharp smack to the side of his head seems to get his circuits working again and when Dean blinks, his eyes are almost clear. “What?” he asks testily.

“ _Check_ ,” Sam hisses.

Dean just stares at him blankly. “Check…what?”

“If you got me fucking _pregnant_ , you asshole!” he shouts, voice bouncing off the suddenly claustrophobic interior of the car. “Dean, I swear to God. If you knocked me up, I’m gonna take six of the biggest plastic baby dolls I can find and shove them up _your_ ass! A whole goddamn litter, Dean. I am _not_ kidding!”

His brother winces, but he at least has the decency to look a little apologetic. “Your nose is gonna be way more sensitive than mine is, man.”

“But I don’t know what it fucking smells like, okay? So could you just—” Sam frantically waves his hands over his own torso until Dean catches them in his own.

“Okay, okay. Shh,” he says soothingly. “I got it.” Dean squeezes his fingers once more before relocating his hands to Sam’s waist, his grip firm as he steadily pulls his hips back. They’ve been locked together long enough for his brother’s knot to have mostly gone down, and as he finally tugs free, Sam is surprised to find himself bemoaning the lack of contact almost as much as he’s terrified of the answer to the question hovering between them. Dean hunches over, craning his neck to press his face into Sam’s abs—and _fuck_ , this whole omega thing really isn’t that fun anymore.

“…No,” his brother says after a nerve-wracking moment. “I can’t smell…” He pulls back to meet Sam’s eyes, and Sam catches a brief flash of ambivalence cross his brother’s features. “It didn’t take.”

The abrupt flood of relief flushing through his system leaves him so weak and shaky that Sam doesn’t even have the energy to waste on the spare thought. “Are you sure?” he asks through numb lips. “Dean, are you _positive?”_

“Yeah,” Dean breathes, dropping his head again to rest on Sam’s belly. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Sam closes his eyes, bringing his hands up to absently stroke over the shorn hair at the back of his brother’s head, and then lower, tracing his fingertips along the leather thong strung around his neck. “Okay,” he says breathlessly. “Okay, that’s good. We’re good. We’re okay. Good.”

“We’re separated now,” Dean mumbles into his abdomen after a quiet minute. “We should head inside.”

Sam manages to meet the exhaustion in his brother’s voice with his own. He doesn’t even have to try very hard. “Can we at least get dressed?”

“Yeah, good idea,” he mutters. “Suits are in the trunk.”

Dean had torn a giant gash in the lining of Sam’s jacket during everything that went down last night, and Sam has absolutely no idea where his flannel had ended up, so Dean’s the one to wrestle on his jeans and face the light of day while he rescues their change of clothes. His brother tosses a gray bundle at his face when he gets back and immediately commandeers the front seat, which leads to a mostly awkward tangle of limbs as they do their best to change inside the car _without_ scandalizing any pedestrians. Sam wishes he could say it wasn’t a common occurrence for them.

They make their way back into the shop, looking for all the world like they slept in their rumpled suits—at least, that’s what Sam’s _hoping_ people will think—and sweep the place top to bottom, but there’s neither hide nor hair of the sapphire. _Or_ of Shen. The entire counter display has been cleaned out too. Fucker must have snuck back in late last night to cover his tracks while they were…otherwise occupied. Sam would smash a few priceless heirlooms out of well-placed frustration if he wasn’t afraid that one of the other cursed knick-knacks might turn him into a goat or something. They’re back out onto the sidewalk and sniping at each other over possible next moves, when he and Dean are abruptly bombarded with unwanted company.

“Hey!” a stern, feminine voice rings out from behind them. “You two! Stop right there!” Sam turns his head at the order, barely managing to catch a woman’s wavering outline against the blinding light of the sun. She’s striding over to head them off, a man shadowing her just a half step behind, and judging from the glint off the shield Sam can make out clipped to the guy’s belt, they’re detectives. _Perfect_ —Sam thinks, rolling his eyes. _This is just what they need right now._ The detectives come to a brisk stop directly in front of them and just glare for a few moments. As far as Sam can tell, the female cop is unmated, but her partner has a claiming mark sitting bright and noticeable above the knot of his tie.

“You two Roeser and Bloom?”

Dean fixes the woman with a disarming smile. “Depends on who’s asking.”

“ _I’m_ asking,” she retorts, completely uncharmed. “The detective who’s sick of feds swooping in on her case and harassing her witnesses.”

“D.C.’s got jurisdiction here,” Sam interrupts smoothly. “Standard protocol.” He pulls his suit jacket open, rooting around in his breast pocket for one of Bobby’s business cards. “If you’ve got an issue with the chain of command, you can argue it over with our supervisor—”

“My partner doesn’t have an issue with the chain of command, _Agent_.” That’s the guy, raising a cool eyebrow as he looks them both over with barely-concealed animosity. “She wants to know what the Federal Bureau of Investigation thinks it’s doing sending two of its best and brightest after the murder of a couple of townies.”

“You mean why HQ put us on the tail of a possible serial killer before anyone else could get hurt?” Dean asks sarcastically. “You’re welcome.”

The first detective rolls her eyes at his brother’s snark, tossing her head just enough that the wind catches her hair and grants Sam a sudden and unadulterated faceful of her scent. _Alpha_. And she smells mouth-watering. Not as good as Dean, of course—not even close to as good as Dean—but enticing nonetheless. Like sun and clean sweat and freshly cut grass. And it’s pulling Sam toward her like he’s been magnetized. He’s practically halfway to rubbing up against the poor woman when a fortunate breeze brings him a slight whiff of the male detective instead, clearing his head enough that he can think again. He’s omega—Sam’s a little surprised to realize—and smells sweeter than his alpha co-worker. Like island fruit that’s gone just the slightest bit overripe. Subtler than his partner’s scent though, a lot more muted—probably due to the fact that he’s mated. It’s pleasant enough, Sam guesses, but nothing that _yanks_ at him the way the female detective’s does.

 _God_ , he wants to her to fuck him. Wants her to shove him back against the brick mortar work behind them and wrap her legs around his waist. Wants to get his hands up under that tight skirt, rip her pantyhose away, and plunge in deep. His arms carrying her weight as they rut like animals against the wall. Wants to feel her clenching tight around him, tying them together, filling him up with her seed. Wants to _envy_ hold her in place _sharp and sour_ and let her breed him up _jealousy_ and have her pups _Dean_.

Sam finally manages to wrench his attention away from the cop, only to come face-to-face with his brother’s outraged expression of betrayal. Dean’s eyes are just one shade short of _murderous_ as he glares at him in shock, but Sam can’t seem to stop leaking arousal like a teenage girl at a rock concert, no matter how much he tries to pull himself together. He gives his brother his best attempt at a silent apology, doing his damnedest to mentally convey his absolute helplessness over whatever the fuck his body decides it feels like doing—because _clearly_ , hanging onto even one scrap of dignity is far too much to ask for. Sam eventually manages to tear himself away long enough to turn his attention back to the others, but is unable to decipher whatever quiet judgment is lurking in their eyes.

Both of the cops must be able to smell that he and Dean have had sex recently. Although, to be fair, they’d probably think the same thing even if they _hadn’t_ been all over each other this morning. Their scents are all so mixed up with one another’s, just from the way they live, that anyone would make the same mistake. _Have_ , in fact. Even before they started sleeping together for real. More times than he can count on both hands.

That doesn’t stop the female detective from giving Sam a brief once-over though, probably surprised by the unexpected _‘Oh dear God, please take me now’_ signals he can’t seem to keep himself from launching at her face. She blinks as she takes him in, and Sam can read a slight hint of interest in her dark eyes before she catches Dean’s violent murder-glare and deliberately steers them back to the subject at hand. Smart woman. It doesn’t take an omega’s nose to figure out _exactly_ how his brother feels about the last few minutes. “It takes _three_ separate kills before a murderer can be classified as serial,” she says sharply, all business now. “And since I desperately hope that the two of you already know that, I reiterate. What the hell is Uncle Sam doing here in Dover?”

Dean crosses his arms over his chest and narrows his eyes at her. “You found two kids burned to _ashes_ on a downtown sidewalk. With no clear motive, no trace of propellant, and not even a _hint_ of damage to the surrounding area. You wanna run how _not weird_ that is by me again?”

“Weird is for the X-Files,” the omega detective says patronizingly. “What we’ve got here is a lunatic with a homemade flamethrower and no shred of human decency.” He scrunches his nose up at Dean, sarcasm emanating from him in waves. “But have fun searching for the scary aliens, Mulder.”

The alpha cop shoots her partner a reprimanding look before turning her attention back to them. “So are you two going to leave our case alone? Or do I have to explain to my captain that our lead witness has been missing since last night because a couple of blundering idiots scared him off?”

His brother fakes an obnoxious laugh for a few seconds before snapping back to pissed. “Right,” he says. “ _We’re_ the idiots. You two ever stop to think that maybe Shen is AWOL ‘cause he’s the bastard who fucking did it?”

The detective rubs a hand over her closed eyes like just speaking with them is exhausting her. “Right. The seventy-year-old man who owns the neighborhood antiques shop chased down two college kids in their prime and managed to hold them down until he could set them on fire.”

“You usually eliminate murder suspects due to nothing more than age?” Sam chimes in, doing his best to subtly hold his breath. “Because I think the Copelands might have something to say about that.”

“Robert Shen isn’t a _suspect_ because he has an airtight alibi,” she shoots back humorlessly. “He was at an independent film festival all night long. Cameras caught him the whole time. Plus a slew of other theatergoers can vouch for him being there until at least midnight.” She straightens the lapels of her blazer and throws on a sardonic smile. “But it’s so great to see that the Feeb actually does their homework on cases. Guess the rest of us can retire early now.” The detective narrows her gaze at both of them in turn. “Now why don’t you two run along and leave this to the cops who actually live here?”

Sam wants to use the excuse as an out—to grab his brother and duck away politely, now that they know the shop is a useless lead—but he can’t seem to move his feet. Can’t seem to stop his body from practically _begging_ the poor woman to mount him. Which is making him feel guilty as fucking sin because he’s panting after a complete stranger while Dean is literally standing right next to him. A low undercurrent of _jealousy_ is still hovering in a solid, three-inch aura around his brother’s outline, and Sam just keeps pulling in more of the sour smell with every breath he takes. So he tries to direct his focus toward Dean instead, doing his best to drown out the detective’s pheromones with his brother’s stronger, more tantalizing scent. He focuses on Dean’s steady breathing, the soft pounding of his heartbeat, the strong cut of his shoulders filling out the sharp angles of his suit. It isn’t until Sam actually succeeds in distracting himself that he suddenly realizes the enormous, gaping flaw in his plan. Namely…that all he’s managed to do is to get himself all worked up over the _other_ alpha in the group. Dean raises an eyebrow at Sam’s lingering, dry-mouthed staring—and the back of his slacks go so immediately damp that there’s no way the rest of them can’t smell it. Mortification flushes through Sam, racing neck-and-neck with arousal, as both emotions try their hardest to overload his system.

Dean’s nostrils flare a little at the scent, and then understanding flashes across his face. He reaches out a hand to wrap around Sam’s elbow, offering what little help he can, but it only makes everything Sam is feeling that much worse. His wonderful, caring alpha trying to protect him like that only because he’s suddenly incapable of dealing with his own crap. “Alright,” his brother says, picking his battles now that it’s clear he needs to get them out of there. “We’re out. You win. Have fun with _your_ case.” Then, just because he’s a stubborn ass, he can’t stop from adding, “Feel free to give us a ring once you’re up against a wall though. If we’re not too busy, maybe we’ll be able to come back and clean up your mess.”

The other alpha’s eyes blaze furiously at the insult, but she swallows her rage down rather than start a fistfight on a busy sidewalk. “Be gone by the time I get back,” she says curtly. Then she smooths her hands over her skirt and nods to her partner. “Durland, why don’t you make sure these gentlemen don’t have any problems finding their way back to their car?” She levels them with a last warning look, then turns on her heel and heads into the storefront, leaving the omega detective to keep a sullen eye on them.

“Look, we’re gone,” Dean promises at the cop’s unceasing glare, lifting his free hand up and out. “So why don’t you go turn that hairy eyeball on someone useful, huh? Like an actual suspect.”

Durland ignores his brother’s needling and slants his eyes over to Sam, something ugly glinting in the narrowed depths. “Look,” he starts lowly, distaste poorly disguised under a flimsy veneer of professional politeness. “I’m all for omegas in the workplace and shit.” He sweeps a hand up and down his own body as an example. “ _Clearly_. And I get that Carter’s probably a real nice catch for someone who looks as… _unconventional_ as you do.” The detective tilts his head up to indicate Sam’s height, throwing on a tight-lipped expression that’s probably supposed to be a smile. “But if you can’t handle the job without begging to go ass-up for every single alpha you come across, then maybe you should go into homemaking instead of play-acting at law enforcement. Because, _trust me_ ,” he says, “everyone can tell. And you’re making the rest of us look bad.”

And normally, Sam would get right up in someone’s face for a comment like that. He’s definitely experienced his fair share of beta-themed slurs and thinly-veiled insults in his life, and as a result, doesn’t have time for any kind of sexist bullshit. No matter which way it’s directed. In fact, if Sam were himself right now, he’d have something cold and cutting to spit right back at the guy, leaving him scuffing his dress shoes against the sidewalk in shame as they stalked away. Something that would make him think long and hard about his decision to be a massive douche to the exact type of person he’s ostensibly trying to help. But the frustration at being singled out doesn’t bleed into anger the way it usually does. Instead, the feeling just builds and builds until it starts bubbling over, and Sam is horrified to find himself actually tearing up. _No. **No**. Oh God, no. _ Sam tries to clamp down on the emotion, but nothing he does can hold back the tide. His bottom lip starts to quiver embarrassingly and hot tears collect in the corners of his eyes.

Dean seems to note the uncharacteristic silence after a few seconds and glances over just in time to catch the tears actually starting to fall. His brother’s immediate shock at the sight quickly shifts into defensive growling as he turns to snarl at the detective.

“Oh, what?” Durland spits at Dean. “You planning on tearing into me to protect your giant boyfriend? How you think the Bureau’s gonna handle being told that one of their agents just physically assaulted the local P.D.? Fuck off, Alpha.” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his slacks, giving them his back as he follows the first detective into the shop. “But thanks for proving my point for me,” he tosses over his shoulder at Sam before disappearing into the building.

“Sam, what the hell?” Dean hisses out the corner of his mouth the second they’re alone. “Why are you _crying?”_

Sam just clamps his fingers around his brother’s arm and tries to choke back the embarrassing tears. “I don’t know. I’m sorry, Dean. I can’t— I’m _trying_.” The floodgates strain under the unfamiliar force of his emotions, and then violently crumble to pieces despite his best attempts at keeping everything in. Sam doubles over as the sobs finally start in full, and it’s like he’s outside his own body—watching himself break down into a pitiful mess right there in public. Along with everyone else staring at them.

“ _Shit_. It’s okay,” Dean says, doing his clumsy best to console him. “Shh. C’mon, Sammy.” He rubs a comforting hand down his back, trying to calm him down, but all it does is make Sam cry harder. And he can’t stop. No matter what he does,he can’t seem to _make it stop._ Dean swears under his breath again and manages to shuffle him away from all the prying eyes and into the limited privacy of the Impala.

Sam clenches one hand against the dashboard the second they’re inside and one around the seat behind him as he tries to even out his breathing. As he tries to stem the ridiculous flow of tears he’s shedding for no apparent reason. As he tries anything— _anything_ to make him feel like himself again. To make him feel like he has even a modicum of control over the situation.

Dean graciously gives him a few seconds to try and pull himself together on his own, but it soon becomes clear to both of them that he can’t. “What the hell happened back there, Sam?” he asks, reaching a hesitant hand out to curl over Sam’s shoulder. He releases the breath he’d been holding the instant Sam sinks into his touch. “Andy Griffith really fuck you up that bad? He barely even said anything, man.”

“ _No_ ,” Sam forces out through soggy, hitched breaths. “It’s not even—” He grits his teeth and growls through the seemingly infinite waterworks. “It’s not even _me_. It’s just these stupid hormones. I don’t know how to handle it.” Another involuntary sob rips its way through him, shaking his shoulders and forcing him even further into his brother’s arms. “I’m not used to _feeling_ like this.”

“Feeling like what?” Dean prods carefully, his hands awkward where they’re resting against Sam’s back.

He slams his eyes shut and shoves his face into Dean’s chest, back hunched and shoulders up around his ears. The nubby horns of his brother’s amulet dig into his forehead where it’s been tucked into Dean’s shirt, but Sam relishes the hint of pain as a welcome distraction from the waking nightmare he’s somehow stumbled into. “Feeling everything,” he admits. “The tiniest things are hitting me like a freaking ton of bricks. And I’m not even doing it on purpose or anything—it’s just _happening_ to me. ‘Cause of this stupid fucking body.” Sam pulls in a deep breath and tries to shut it all off again, but it doesn’t work. Clearly, he’s got no more control over his own bodily functions than he does over the very weather itself. It’s goddamn _humiliating_. And lucky for him, his brother is here to witness every single second of Sam’s mortification, up close and personal.

“Was it just—?” Dean relaxes his arms a bit and wets his lips. Sam can smell the _pity_ coming off from him in waves. _Stale and deep, like pond water._ “Was it just what that Durland guy was saying? ‘Cause he’s a douche, man. Full stop.”

Sam shakes his head against Dean’s shirt. “No,” he says quietly. “It wasn’t just that.” He clenches his fingers tighter into his brother’s lapels and swallows around what feels like a grapefruit-sized lump in his throat. “I couldn’t stop myself from flinging mating signals at that cop,” he croaks. “Or you. Everyone could smell it. I couldn’t hide a single thing I was feeling from anyone. S’fucking _embarrassing_.”

Dean pulls in a breath to speak, then pauses for a moment instead. Like he’s unsure of the words about to come out of his mouth. “It’s really not that uncommon,” he says stiltedly. “With omegas, I mean. Lots of times you can just…tell. It ain’t like it’s a secret or anything.”

Sam freezes in indignation. Well, that doesn’t help one freaking bit. He thinks about resigning himself to his new life of endless public shame—and it’s like a heavy, metal collar snapping shut around his neck. Sam tries to rein in the quivering of his shoulders as the tears come anew, but they both know he’s just kidding himself. He has no idea what to do. Which leads to follow. He doesn’t know how to fix this. Shen has apparently disappeared into thin air—taking the only possible chance at a cure along with him—and Sam just wants his alpha. He wants Dean to hold him and to make everything better…and Sam hates himself for it. For being so pathetic and needy. He fucking _hates_ himself. Dunked into this ridiculous ocean of hormones with his new emotions ping-ponging back and forth between hornier-than-he’s-ever-been and weeping-like-a-goddamn-kid too erratically for Sam to catch up. Everything’s all too new, and it’s all happening too fast, and Sam just doesn’t know how to make it _stop_.

As if he’s reading his thoughts, Dean finally embraces him for real. Softening in a way that he’d never do normally, his arms sweeping protectively around Sam like something in his brain is clicking into gear. He wonders if it’s an alpha thing. An instinctual _nudge_ at the sight of tears—for all the weak, useless omegas who can’t handle shit on their own. And Sam hates the fact that said group now includes him. Absolutely _loathes_ the way his body seems to be set on betraying him every way it can.

“I can’t do this,” he sniffles into the now-soaked fabric stretching over his brother’s chest. And even that manages to come off as pathetic. “I need to just be _me_ again.”

“We’re gonna fix it,” Dean assures him, his tone gentle as he smoothes a hand over the back of Sam’s head. “We’re gonna fix this, Sammy. I promise.”

The low, comforting cadence of his brother’s—his _alpha’s_ —voice makes him feel just the slightest bit calmer, despite himself. Lifting his spirits like Dean’s flipping on a light switch. The alpha says it’s gonna be fine, so the omega feels instantly better. Like goddamn magic.

Sam fucking hates that too.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

They have absolutely nothing to go on as far as Shen is concerned, so Dean steers them back to the motel to regroup. Which very quickly turns into a brief stopover at the nearest 24-hour pharmacy. Sam’s ridiculous crying jag from earlier had started to edge back into that low-level, turned-on feeling about ten minutes into the drive and there’s no way either of them are going to be able to control themselves without at least a week’s worth of protection on hand.

Sam begs Dean to go in and get the pills for him—because he just fucking _can’t_ right now, not like this—but it turns out that the stupid Rite Aid can’t sell over-the-counter birth control to an alpha all by himself. “Needing an omega present” for legal reasons or whatever. So Sam reluctantly trails in after his brother, metaphorical tail tucked between his legs, as he drags his feet and tries to pretend that he’s absolutely anywhere else in the universe at the moment.

“Oh, sweetheart,” the matronly omega behind the register coos at him the second he slinks into view. “These won’t work on you in your condition.” Sam jolts at the statement, and he and Dean share a quick look of surprise. Because how could some random drugstore employee have possibly guessed Sam’s _situation_? But it turns out that their mutual mini freak-out is completely unnecessary, as the clerk just turns around to grab a different brand of medication from the wall behind her. “See, this is why we don’t sell to the boyfriends,” she says, with an affectionate roll of her eyes in Dean’s direction. “If your heat’s about to start, you’ll need to take these instead.”

Sam sputters a bit as his brain attempts to catch up with his ears. Because there’s no way in _hell_  she just said what Sam _thinks_ she’s just said. “ _Excuse_ me?”

The clerk blinks a bit at the perceived overreaction. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, honey. You just have to make sure that you get the ones with ‘heat-effective’ written on the box.” She leans across the counter to show him the packaging, and a faint aroma of laundry detergent and molasses wafts over him at the motion. “See?”

Sam’s brain is still one slight breeze away from a complete meltdown, so Dean quickly picks up the slack for him. “Look, lady,” he says protectively, “there’s no freaking way he’s in _heat_ , alright? It’s impossible. I’d be able to smell it, for one thing.”

But the cashier just cuts him off with dismissive flick of her wrist. “Oh, please,” she replies warmly. “I’ve got three omegas of my own at home. One boy and two girls.” She says that last bit with the kind of parental pride that usually precedes an unending series of wallet-sized family photos. “So trust me when I say I know the warning signs of an oncoming cycle.” She drops the box back onto the counter so she can cross her arms under her chest. “Now, I’m not here to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong, and I’m not gonna nag at you two for being unmated, but your boy here is just about fertile. So if you don’t want any unexpected surprises, then you’re gonna do as I say and buy _these_ pills instead. Alright? ‘Cause I am _not_ interested in you two coming back here in three months’ time and asking for my manager, claiming that I sold you faulty birth control.”

Dean looks like he’s intent on drawing out the argument—just for the sake of stubborn alpha pride—but Sam is already yanking at the tie around his throat, tugging it away from his too-sensitive and overheated skin. Somehow it’s like just because the woman’s given a name to it, the whole thing is suddenly more powerful. More real. Because Sam _does_ feel hot, now that you mention it. And restless. Like he couldn’t sit still if you paid him. Plus, the underlying thrum of arousal from this morning still hasn’t gone away. Not completely. At just the thought of the word _‘heat’_ , his asshole gives an insistent throb, releasing a slow trickle of slick down the back of his thigh, and Sam wants to get the fuck out of there and back into their room before he completely embarrasses himself in public. _Again_. “Dean, can we _please_ just do as she says?” he asks under his breath. Hopeful that the strained urgency in his tone is coming through.

His brother barely spares him a glance though, not even turning around all the way. “C’mon, Sam,” he says distractedly. “There’s no way any of that is possible. Especially considering that the whole…” he pauses as he searches for the right word, “— _thing_ just happened last night.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam hisses again, more anxiously this time.

“What?” Dean spins around to finally look at him. “Dude, it’s not like you’re—” Apparently, he finally picks up on Sam’s scent—or maybe it’s the way Sam is violently digging his fingernails into his brother’s forearm—because Dean shuts up mid-sentence and just stares at him, mouth completely slack. “Seriously?” he asks in a much smaller voice.

“Just buy the fucking pills, Dean.” Sam is hit with another strong wave of his brother’s arousal as Dean snaps his teeth shut and meekly hands over one of his newer credit cards to the cashier. There’s a little subdued smile flirting at the corners of her lips, but she doesn’t say anything more. And by the time the birth control is all bought and paid for, Sam’s dick is already at half-mast.

They head back out into the parking lot and Sam barely keeps himself from sprinting until they finally make it to the Impala. He rips open the packaging the first chance he gets, dry swallowing one of the pills before he can get too distracted and forget to take them, then flings the rest into the backseat. His stupid heat— _so that’s what’s been causing that prickly feeling all morning, he’s in fucking **heat**_ —keeps incessantly lapping at his nerves, and Sam has to fight against the urge to tear his brother’s slacks off with his teeth the second Dean’s in grabbing distance. He somehow manages to keep himself mostly together as Dean speeds along the streets back to their motel, although he nearly leaks through onto the leather trying to hold back from mounting his brother in the friggin’ car. _Again_. And he only manages _that_ by mentally reciting multiplication tables as high as he can go.

“Shit,” Dean mutters under his breath after a few minutes, yanking Sam’s attention away from _27 times 24_. His eyes flick over to the dash, and then he curses again, his hands clenching around the steering wheel until his knuckles go white.

… _648_ “What?” Sam asks tightly _. 27 times 25…675._

“We’re outta gas.”

 _27 times 26_ stutters for a moment, then shatters into little pieces. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Sam asks through his teeth.

“Yeah, Sam,” Dean snits. “This is all one big hilarious _joke_.”

“Well, how bad is it?” he says, trying to pull in even breaths while at the same time doing his best not to pay any attention to the overwhelming scent of Dean’s arousal. “Are we ‘out of gas’ like the little light just went on? Or ‘out of gas’ like we’re about to sputter to a stop?”

Dean’s shoulders hunch up guiltily. “We’re ‘out of gas’ like the light went on yesterday evening and I completely forgot about it ‘til just now.”

“ _Dean_.”

“What?” his brother snarls. “Like you said, we’ve both been kind of _distracted_ recently.” He snaps his mouth shut, probably before anything more instigative can escape, and clenches his jaw like he’s trying to cage his tongue behind his teeth. “Look, I’m gonna pull into that station up ahead. Just stay in the car and I’ll be done before you know it.”

“Yeah, sure,” Sam says under his breath. “I can’t tell you how calm and together I am right now. In fact, why don’t you take your time, pick up some snacks while you’re at it?”

Dean steers them up to a pump and violently slams on the brakes, jerking them both forward in their seats. He manages to keep his cool for all of two seconds, his fingers doing their best to make permanent indents in the perforated leather of the steering wheel, before he’s suddenly launching himself at Sam’s side of the car. Dean’s on him quicker than Sam’s brain can catch up and he lets out an embarrassing whimper as he automatically tries to press closer into his brother’s touch, Dean’s calloused hands dragging rough and possessive over Sam’s shoulders as he wrenches his neck back to nip at the newly available skin. Sam can’t seem to do much more than whine pitifully in response, but, thankfully, Dean still has the presence of mind to not start anything in a public fucking gas station. He leaves Sam with one last parting scrape of his teeth, and then willfully forces himself back over to the driver’s side.

“Stay in the car, Sam,” he grinds out, low and rough. Like straining gravel through a sieve. “Swear to god, just— _stay_.” There’s a flip of his suit jacket, an unnecessarily forceful slam of the car door, and then Sam is left alone with his whirling pheromones sluggishly fogging up the Impala’s front seat.

It’s hot. It’s so goddamn _hot_ in the car. Sam yanks at the tie around his neck again until it finally comes free with a strangled rip of sweat-damp material. Undoing the first few buttons of his shirt only provides nominal relief, and Dean took the damn keys with him so it’s not like Sam can even turn on the A/C. He whimpers again, somewhat mollified by the fact that at least there’s no one around to hear it, and furiously curses at his body for the umpteenth time in the last hour. It isn’t fair. Why does this have to be happening _now?_ Why does it have to be happening to _him?_

Another bead of sweat makes its way down Sam’s temple, clearly trying to match the disturbingly similar feeling of wetness slowly spreading out against the inside of his thighs. Sam doesn’t manage to hold out long. The claustrophobic sound of his own heavy panting keeps driving him deeper and deeper into an unending spiral of mindless _want_. A quick glance outside reveals that Dean is nowhere in sight—he must have headed inside to pay the guy in cash—and Sam is yanking open the car door and straining for freedom before he can think better of it. A hint of a breeze wisps over the sweat at his temples the instant he’s free, too humid to do much good, but still leagues better than being stuck in that hotbox all by himself. Sam closes his eyes and tries to focus on breathing in fresh air. On anything that isn’t the hot, incessant need coiling in his loins. In fact, he’s so distracted trying to wrangle his stupid biology into submission that he doesn’t even register the sound of footsteps until the scent of rain and bitter black coffee curls up over his shoulder.

“Hey, you here alone?”

The alpha’s voice is friendly enough, mellow and non-threatening, with just the faint hint of herbal cigarettes riding out on his exhale. Sam bites back an annoyed groan at the interruption and reluctantly turns to acknowledge his new suitor. The guy’s about his height, give or take an inch or two, but can’t be more than maybe half his size. And that’s being generous. His arms are absolutely covered with tattoos everywhere his skin peeks out from his wash-worn v-neck and he’s got the kind of heroin-chic frame and mild pretentiousness that just reeks of an art school dropout.

“My brother’s inside,” Sam manages to force out quickly, hoping that the threat of company will deter his hopeful admirer enough that he can get back to trying to clear his head.

But the guy is unmoved. “Your brother, huh?” Apparently, the concept of subtlety is lost on any knot-brained alpha when faced with the possibility of an omega in heat. He shoves his hands into his pockets and rocks back in his ratty Converse low-tops. “So that means you’re not seeing anyone? ‘Cause I’ve got a place a little ways from here, if you wanna check it out.”

Sam takes another deep breath and scrambles for a rebuff explicit enough that it can’t be willfully misunderstood. The guy seems harmless for the most part—slouchy knit beanies and thick-framed Buddy Holly glasses aren’t generally the attire of dangerous individuals—but since he and Dean haven’t actually claimed each other, Sam knows how serious this can get and how quickly it can get there. He’s barely in possession of all his faculties _now_ , and if his heat gets any worse, he knows he’ll end up just as desperate as they always say. Needy and begging and pathetic. No matter who the alpha is. The guy sniffing around him isn’t even that attractive—too up his own ass, with a patronizing sort of disposition—but Sam can already feel that low, clawing want start to creep up on him at the man’s scent. Like with the cop from earlier. Not bad enough that he can’t control himself, but just the slightest thrum of desire winding its way around his spine and chipping away at the walls of his resistance. Making him wonder if giving in would actually be such a terrible idea.

“Can I help you, buddy?” a tense growl comes from behind them before Sam can reply. _Thank God._ Who knows what he might have said under the rising influence of his stupid heat. Dean is practically glaring daggers at the guy when Sam turns around, his intent decidedly _less_ friendly than the casual endearment might otherwise indicate.

The other alpha does pause for a second—which is smart, considering the violent aggression rising off of his brother in almost palpable waves—but Sam guesses that the prospect of a heat-addled omega is just too sweet a risk to back down from because he squares his shoulders and glares right back. ‘Suicidal’ would be too kind a word for it. Dean’s got fire in his eyes and nearly forty pounds of muscle on the guy—and that’s not even mentioning the lifetime of lethal combat training.

“We were just having a conversation, _pal_ ,” the other alpha says, and Sam takes a belated moment to realize that he never even got the guy’s name. _Christ_. Some mating that would have been. He tries not to feel too grateful for his brother’s timely rescue, but there’s only so much _pathetic_ that Sam shove down today before the rest of it comes bubbling back up.

“Just having a conversation with _my_ omega,” Dean snarls back. “So why don’t you just ease on down the fucking road before this has to get messy?”

Sam forcibly ignores the warm, tingling flush that crawls up his chest and shoulders at the possessive nature of Dean’s words, deciding to step in before the two of them can actually start butting their heads together. “Look,” he says to Art School, “I’m not interested. My brother and I were just leaving.” The guy wilts a little at his blunt rejection, but Sam doesn’t care enough to soften the dismissal the way he normally would. Now that _his_ alpha is back— _shut up, that’s not even what it’s like_ —there’s no contest. Dean’s addictive scent is completely swamping his senses, and Sam knows that unless they’re back in the car within the next few seconds, he isn’t going to be able to stop himself from jumping his brother right here in the goddamn parking lot.

The other alpha finally falls back with a sour look, heading off to nurse his wounded pride, but he twists around again just before he can reach his dusty blue Jetta. “Y’know, no offense or anything,” he tosses back to Sam without even the slightest shred of self-preservation, “but your brother’s fucking psycho.”

“You wanna see me go _psycho?”_ Dean shouts at the kid, canines flashing in the sun. “Then keep _pushing_ me, Warhol!”

The guy finally seems to realize when he’s outmatched and ducks into his compact with a terrified slam of the driver’s door. The sedan peels out of the station with a squeal of burning rubber, and Sam waits until he’s nothing more than a smoke trail in the distance before releasing Dean’s elbow where he’d been holding him back from tearing the kid’s throat out.

“There,” he says snidely. “Your ego all nice and inflated? Big, bad alpha through with marking his territory? Or would you rather piss on the tires first?”

Dean just pushes past him, jamming the fuel nozzle into the tank with a metallic clang as he resolutely ignores his taunting. “I though I told you to stay _inside_ the car,” he growls, the harsh bite to his words barely holding within the realm of calm.

“Wow, I’m _so_ sorry, Dean,” Sam snipes back, not much closer to civil himself. “Next time I’ll make sure and bend right over the front seat. Y’know, so I can be nice and ready for you when you get back.” Sam stupidly realizes what he’s just said only seconds after the words have left his mouth, his jabs having the exact opposite effect from how he’d intended them—because of _course_ that’s what was going to happen given how riled up they both are at the moment—and Dean doesn’t even blink before he’s slamming Sam up against the Impala’s doors.

Sam lets out a dragging, broken sound at the action, immediately melting under his brother’s touch instead of shoving Dean off like he wants to. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” he whispers, helpless to stop his mouth from spitting out every single thought that flashes across his hindbrain.

Dean catches rough fingers in Sam’s hair and grinds their hips together, pressing him against the sun-heated metal. “God, I’m gonna mess you up,” Dean grits through his teeth. “Give you exactly what you’re asking for.” He gives Sam another ruthless thrust of his hips to underscore his words. The exact opposite of an empty threat.

But Sam just twists his own hand around Dean’s tie in return, yanking him as close as physically possible and hooking a leg around the back of his knees to keep their lower bodies locked together. “Need you,” he whines embarrassingly, rubbing up against the thick weight of his brother’s cock. The thin material of their slacks does absolutely nothing to dull the warmth bleeding from their overheated flesh and Sam can feel Dean practically burning a brand into the skin of his own inner thigh. “Please, Dean. Please. _Alpha_.”

A violent shudder ripples through Dean’s body at the appellation, and he can barely make out the click of the pump shutting off over his brother’s sudden and savage onslaught. There are teeth at Sam’s neck, and a hard chest crushed up against his own, and grasping hands roaming over so much available skin that Sam’s brain just about shuts down from the overstimulation. Dean is murmuring a string of rushed sentences into the hollow of his throat and the blade of his jaw, switching between the two places like he can’t decide where to fix his attentions, and it takes Sam a few struggling moments to pull himself together enough to actually catch the fleeting words.

“…get you back…room…can’t…knot you so fucking good…drive me crazy…”

Sam ducks his head, cutting off his brother’s diatribe with a hard press of his lips. “Ten minutes,” he breathes out against Dean’s mouth. “Okay? Just take us back to the motel. _Please_.”

Dean lets out a long, plaintive groan, but somehow finds the strength of will to wrench himself out of their tangled embrace. “Get in the fucking car,” he orders quietly. No room for argument. But for once in his life, Sam isn’t remotely interested in bucking the command. He scrambles into the front seat, patiently waiting for his brother to slam the dispenser back on its hook and join him inside.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  

Sam doesn’t even remember the drive back. Just brief flashes of hot, desperate yearning and a lot of straining to keep to his side of the car so that they wouldn’t end up in a fiery wreck before they could make it to their motel.

He’s on Dean the second they get out of the Impala, not even waiting for them to cross the parking lot. They slam up against the door together, and then fall into the room, a knotted heap of limbs and gnashing teeth, and Sam doesn’t even wait for it to shut again before he’s practically pouncing for Dean’s fly.

“Fucking Christ,” his brother hisses, throwing his head back against the thin carpeting. Dean fumbles at his own zipper with lust-clumsy fingers, but Sam doesn’t even have the energy to think past the heady mix of hormones drenching his brain. Ten thousand times worse than the alpha at the gas station because this time it’s _Dean_. His alpha. His _mate_. Sam makes another lunge for Dean’s throat, but his brother gets him twisted around and ass-up before he can manage to bite down. Sam almost lets out a whine at the loss, but the rock-hard erection riding the soaking cleft of his ass quickly distracts him from the thought.

“ _God_ , you’re so wet,” Dean pants into the nape of his neck.

Sam can’t form actual words anymore. He just makes a needy sound and shoves back against Dean’s crotch, hoping that he’ll get the clumsy message. And, apparently, his brother can read minds because Dean yanks his slacks down one-handed and gets his underwear tangled around his knees before Sam can even pull in his next breath. Then he’s lining up and sliding home on the one after that. Giving Sam everything that his body has been begging for. Dean plunges in deep and wet and easy. Filling him up until he can practically taste his brother’s cock in the back of his throat, and then slipping out again, leaving him empty and aching, before slamming back inside and fixing everything in the very next second. And it’s in the moments like these that Sam thinks he might be okay with this lasting forever. That maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if they never managed to find Shen. That he could handle being stuck like this as long as Dean was right here with him. Another expertly aimed thrust forces a shattered cry out of Sam’s lungs, and all higher thinking goes flying out of his head to make room for the way his body is _singing_.

He doesn’t have any other thoughts for a very long while.

They’re a fucking mess by the time Sam’s brain eventually comes back online. Both of them sweaty and panting and absolutely reeking of come and of each other. Of course, his stomach chooses that exact second to start growling insistently, reminding him of the fact that they skipped lunch, but having his brother wrapped around him like the world’s warmest, heaviest octopus registers as the more pressing concern at the moment. There’s also a low-level cramping in his abdomen now, his heat having finally decided to show up in full force. It isn’t unbearable, but Dean’s scent and his proximity and yes, the dick thoroughly lodged in his ass, seem to be keeping the worst of it at bay. Given everything that this thing’s thrown at him so far, Sam isn’t so sure if he wants to tempt fate by separating unless they absolutely have to.

“How’re you doin’?” his brother mumbles blearily where his lips are smushed up against the back of Sam’s ear. “Heat any better?”

Sam can’t help but relax a little at the low rumble of Dean’s voice. They’re both more themselves at the moment, but who knows how long that’s going to last? He shifts back into his brother’s arms and lets his eyes slip closed again. “Yeah, I think so,” he says tiredly. “For now, at least.”

Dean tightens his grip around his waist, then snuffles through Sam’s hair. “Hey, Sammy? About earlier—”

“Yeah,” Sam lets out in a long sigh. “I know. Me too.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  

For the next few days, this is their life. They fuck whenever the spikes of Sam’s heat become too much to bear, and relegate showering, eating, napping, and researching to the spare moments they can eke out in between flare-ups. Neither he nor Dean have ventured outside the motel room for coming up on 72 hours now—apparently, his brother believes that leaving Sam on his own while he’s like this, even for a moment, is completely unthinkable—and the very walls are so infused with the scent of sweat and spunk that Sam thinks it’ll take the maids at least a week and an industrial-sized bucket of Febreeze to air everything out. Both beds, he’s already written off as lost causes. They might as well just burn the sheets before they check out. Save management some time and effort. It’s not like the retro orange and brown _everything_ couldn’t use an update anyway.

Two and a half days, three separate orders to the pizza place up the street, and endless hours of scrolling through pages and pages of useless ‘arcane’ websites finally ends up bringing them the first possible hit on the research front. Sam manages to find an obscure reference to a pair of similar sapphires in a university scan of an ancient Greek manuscript. It takes him the better part of an hour—and a mandatory break for another quick and dirty knotting from Dean—to decipher the archaic poetry, but it’s the best lead they’ve had yet. Unfortunately, the only thing he actually learns from the text is that the affected party must be changed back before the end of their first heat, otherwise the spell becomes freaking _permanent_. Sam barely stops himself from hurling his laptop against the wall in frustration at the news, but at least they’re getting closer. And it does give him a sort of second wind, research-wise. He’s been ceaselessly chugging away at his computer ever since.

“We should call Bobby.”

Sam doesn’t even look up from the keyboard to answer his brother. “ _No_.”

“He could help,” Dean says, padding out of the bathroom and running a hand over the newly-shaved line of his jaw. The soft hang of his cock sways distractingly between his legs as he makes his way over to the bed, and Sam deliberately forces his attention back to the screen, trying his hardest to ignore the way his abdomen starts to cramp again at the sight of it. Neither of them have bothered with clothes in days. The minimal breaks in between Sam’s episodes just aren’t worth the effort of dressing and undressing every single time. “Why not?” Dean asks stubbornly, dropping down to bounce against the mattress.

“Because it’s freaking _embarrassing_ , Dean. That’s why not.” Judging from the pointed silence hanging heavy behind him, Sam’s shallow justification isn’t quite enough to convince his brother to see things his way. So he snaps his laptop closed and twists around to face him head-on. It’s not like he’s gonna be able to get any work done after Dean’s naked catwalk, anyway. “How could Bobby possibly help us out with this?” Sam points out, extremely rationally. “We already know what we need to do. We have to find Shen. And it’s not like he’s gonna be able to track down some guy he’s never heard of from halfway across the country.”

Dean scratches a fingernail alongside the bridge of his nose and scrunches his face up in reluctant agreement. “Yeah, I guess.”

“So there’s no point in bothering him over something he can’t do anything about.” Sam tosses his computer onto the spare bed and slinks up over Dean’s chest, letting the closeness ease some of the burning ache inside. “Right?”

“Yeah, alright,” his brother finally concedes. “But he’s gonna be pissed at us the next time we see him.”

Sam bends down to trail a line of slow kisses up the column of his brother’s throat. “Stop talking about Bobby,” he whispers, letting his tongue sneak out to lap at Dean’s Adam’s apple. Dean groans at the attention, and Sam can feel his own cock start to fill against his thigh in response. God, he doesn’t even _want_ to have sex anymore—that’s basically all they’ve been doing for _days_ , and he’s more sore and sticky than anything else—but there’s nothing he can do about it. His stupid, needy omega uterus wants a stupid, needy baby and it apparently isn’t going to shut up until it gets one. Or until Sam manages to wait it out through sheer perseverance.

His brother, however, seems right on board with the signals their pheromones are shooting off in every direction—eagerly shoving his face into Sam’s neck and inhaling deeply, his chest expanding underneath Sam’s weight as he pulls in more of the too-sweet scent already permeating the small room. Dean’s arms lock tight around his upper back, dragging him closer, and Sam doesn’t even get a chance to complain about the indent his brother’s amulet is digging into his breastbone before Dean is suddenly flipping them over. He presses Sam down into the mattress with a low growl and the solid weight of him reads unsettlingly soothing to Sam’s lizard brain. His alpha caging him in. Keeping him safe. _Dominating_ him.

The thought sends a wicked blaze of lust slicing through Sam’s insides and a strangled whine escapes his lips before he can catch it. His hips jerk forward without his permission, and then he’s mindlessly grinding up against his brother’s thigh. The motion so animalistic and instinctual that he doesn’t think he could stop it even if he wanted to. Sam tries to get ahold of himself, slow things down a hair, but the fire in his belly just spurs him on hotter and hotter with every possessive grasp of Dean’s hands and answering thrust of his hips. His body reflexively reacting to the show of alpha strength and power above him and leaking slick like a busted gasket.

He wants it. He wants to give Dean everything. He wants to let his brother have his way with him, to simply take whatever he feels like. He wants to be a good omega for his mate. He _wants_ —Sam thinks with a sense of slowly growing horror—to _submit_.

The brief flash of _wrongness_ that skitters across his brain at the foreign idea is the most like himself Sam has felt in days so he snatches at the fleeting emotion, holds it close to his chest and keeps the pilot light simmering. “Wait,” he manages to force through his teeth, slipping his hands up against his brother’s chest until he can shove him back. “Wait, not like this.”

Dean stills instantly, a hint of _fear_ twining through the thick scent of his arousal.  “What’s wrong?” He quickly shifts his weight onto his hands and knees, hovering above Sam without actually touching him. “What’d I do?” he asks, a worried crinkle between his brows. “I hurt you?”

A sheen of sweat is glistening against Dean’s pale shoulders and neck as he pants, as he fights against the all-encompassing _need_ intent on drowning them both—and Sam almost decides to forget the whole thing. Comes two seconds from dragging his brother back on top of him before he finally manages to find his spine. “I wanna do this the other way,” he says stubbornly, meeting Dean’s eyes and holding his ground. Standing firm despite the slight shivers of want still trembling through his body.

Dean frowns, trying to follow the conversation thread. “Okay. You want on top?”

“I want to fuck _you_.”

His brother just blinks at him in confusion, then drops his head against Sam’s collarbone with a stifled sigh. “Sam—”

“What?” Sam snits, more worked up from the heat charring his nerves than his brother’s slight hesitation. “It never bothered you before, so what does it matter?” Dean doesn’t say anything in his defense, so Sam just rolls with it, letting his cresting anger carry him forward. “Or are you saying that what I want doesn’t count now? That things are suddenly different just because of this stupid spell.” He narrows his eyes and tenses his jaw in preparation for an argument. “You saying that just because of what happened, I don’t get a say anymore? That I have to do whatever _you_ want?”

Dean finally cuts him off before he can work himself up into a full-blown rant. “ _No_ ,” he says forcefully. “Jesus, Sam. C’mon.”

“So why can’t we, then?”

There’s a half second of speechless bewilderment, and then Dean just coughs out a dumbfounded sound, his fingers twitching futilely against the sheets. “Because it’s not gonna _do_ anything, Sam. It’s not gonna help you with your heat. And it’s not gonna help me at all—which is _fine_ ,” he adds quickly, tiptoeing around any probable landmines and holding his breath until he’s certain that Sam won’t go flying off the handle. “But, dude,” he continues, “what’s the point if neither of us is getting off?”

Sam bites down on the outrage rising in his throat.  “What, so my dick doesn’t work anymore? You think this stupid slick means that’s all I’m good for? Well, you know what, Dean?” he snarls. “I’m not your fucking _breeding bitch!_ I don’t have to bend over every time you snap your fingers just because that’s what you’re used to!”

His brother goes completely motionless above him, clearly shocked at Sam suddenly tossing around a gendered slur like that. Honestly, Sam should probably take it back. It’s a pretty shitty thing to say. But it’s not like anyone’s actually around to hear them, and the rage still bubbling under his skin is taking precedence over the uncharacteristic slip. Not to mention the painful irony of it all, which just seems to be adding fuel to his indignant fire. Not three days ago Sam was idly fantasizing about this very thing—he was practically _begging_ to be omega—but now that he’s facing the reality of the situation, he wants nothing more than to crawl back into his old life and never leave again. It’s like the universe decided to scrawl ‘be careful what you wish for’ across a cement block and then bash his head in with it.

Dean takes a deep breath, steady and even through his nose, and Sam suddenly finds himself choking on _the_ _dark, bitter, charcoal briquette smell of bridled anger_. “Fine,” his brother says, low and tense. “You want to drive, Sam? Be my guest.” He flips them again in one easy movement, sinking back into the pillows as his eyes glitter with tempered annoyance. His cock is still ready to go—it has been the whole time—flushed and angry where it juts up against Sam’s abs, and Sam has to wrestle back the sudden and fierce urge to get it inside of him. _Inside of Sam where it **belongs**_. His asshole twitches with the wanting and he can feel another pulse of warm slick go running down the back of his thigh. “You gonna get the lube?” Dean asks testily, breaking Sam out of his thoughts. His unblinking stare an obvious challenge.

Sam lets the provocation bolster his own sense of determination, then slams the gates on his brief moment of doubt. He isn’t going to lose.  No way in hell. Not to Dean, and _certainly_ not to his own ridiculous biology. “Don’t need it,” Sam says thickly. He reaches back behind him to swipe his hand through his own fluids—the stuff might as well be good for something—and then presses firm behind his brother’s balls, rolling his palm until he’s able to nudge his fingertips past the rim of Dean’s asshole. Sam twists the wetness around as best he can and refuses to meet his brother’s eyes. Another few passes between Dean’s hole and his, and he’s finally slicked enough to get a couple fingers inside.

It doesn’t feel good though. Not really. The lingering anger is slowly draining away with each passing minute, and by the time it’s fully gone, Sam doesn’t have anything left to push him forward. The aching burn of his hormones is the only reason he’s even hard, and without the emotional connection that their sex usually brings, the flutter of nerves in his belly feels more like nausea than anything else. Dean’s breathing stays completely even and calm throughout it all, his dick still interested solely due to the suffocating scent of Sam’s heat all around them. Sweet and heavy like molten sugar. His hips do hitch up every once in a while, but Dean manages to get ahold of them each time they do. Like he’s physically restraining himself from just grabbing onto Sam and plunging in deep— _they way they both want_. Sam shoves the whisper of biting honesty out of his head and focuses back on his brother. But Dean doesn’t say a single word. He just remains silent as the grave, passive-aggressively allowing Sam to run the show.

He gets Dean as ready as possible, loose enough to take most of his fingers and his resolve is rapidly weakening so that’ll have to do. Another wave of hesitation comes washing over Sam and he pauses, right on the threshold of going through with it. This whole situation is awkward. Stilted. It’s _uncomfortable_ in a way that sex with Dean should never be. He doesn’t know why he’s doing this, Sam realizes. Or what he’s trying to prove exactly. Hell, he doesn’t even know who he’s trying to prove it _to_. And Dean must be able to read his ambivalence in the hunch of his shoulders because the residual animosity dissolves away in an instant.

“Hey,” his brother says gently, reaching a hand up to graze Sam’s hip. Finally touching him again. “Sammy, look at me.” Sam does. A quick glance from under his eyelashes. Subtle, in case he’s misreading his brother’s tone. “It’s gonna be good, okay?” Dean sweeps his palms down Sam’s sides and lets them rest on his thighs. “C’mon, I want you to. You were right.”

“I just need to…” Sam sighs and lets himself trail off. Unsure of how to put it all into words.

“S’alright, sweetheart. I get it.” Dean swallows hard, shoving his own needs back so that he can take care of Sam instead. Another bit of slick trickles out at the alpha-esque display of protection and Sam bites back on a whimper. “Let’s go,” Dean coaxes, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. “The quicker you come, the quicker it’ll be my turn.”

Sam snorts at his brother’s fake moment of selfishness, then leans down to press a long, appreciative kiss to Dean’s perfect lips. Soft and sentimental. Their first proper kiss in a very long while, he realizes belatedly. Sam hadn’t even noticed that his heat had tried to take this away from them too.

Dean slips his tongue into Sam’s mouth with deliberate care, and he welcomes it with a responsive groan and a shiver that travels all the way down to his toes. “C’mon, Sammy,” his brother urges. “It’s alright.” He reaches out to loosely circle the base of Sam’s cock, then has to tighten his fingers a little, adjust his grip from what he’s used to. Sam very determinedly tries not to think about it. Dean gets them both lined up, then tilts his hips back and pulls him in with an adamant heel against his lower back. Sam can feel him wince a little at the sudden stretch, but Dean doesn’t say anything in complaint and Sam is too busy enjoying the sensation to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Dean lets out a steady exhale, breathing through the initial discomfort as he’s bent almost in half, and then he wraps a hand through Sam’s hair to tug him in closer. Sam goes willingly—eagerly, even—descending onto Dean’s mouth with endless enthusiasm as he thrusts deeper into his brother’s tight warmth.

It feels…good. Not great. His dick is certainly appreciating the stimulation, but it’s muted somehow, and the throbbing in his ass has graduated to a full-fledged ache at the continuing neglect. He feels empty. Like there’s some vast, cavernous yearning inside of him, dampening his satisfaction and demanding to be answered. _He needs to be filled_ —Sam realizes. _He needs to be **knotted**._

Sam yanks his mind away from the uncomfortable truth and focuses his energy on fucking his brother harder instead, hoping that the sheer friction will make up for anything that’s lacking—his helpless anger at his situation readily translating over into the brutal punch of his hips. But it doesn’t work. Nothing he tries does anything to ease the craving, and the stark understanding hangs heavy over Sam’s head. He won’t be able to finish without being fucked himself. The omega in him needs an alpha’s knot to get off. Sam lets out a little sob at the helpless feeling of frustration, but it gets caught deep in his throat. He can’t even have sex anymore. Not like a man, at least. It’s cruel—no, it’s _unfair_. His heat apparently not content until it takes this away from him too, until it undermines every single aspect of who he is. Who he _was_.

“Sammy, hey,” Dean says soothingly, probably trying to direct Sam’s attention away from the worrisome determination to fuck him raw. “ _Sam_. Jesus.” He hisses at the frenzied pace, but Sam can’t let up. He _can’t_. He has to do this. Has to prove that he can _do_ this.

Then, out of nowhere, Sam suddenly finds himself wrenched off and shoved face-down onto the damp mattress beneath them. Unable to move at all with the heavy weight pressing unyielding into his back. Each panting inhale through his nose brings the scent of Dean and sex and _heat_ into his lungs, and doesn’t do a thing to halt the desperate frenzy still careening through his chest. “Calm _down_ ,” his brother growls into his ear, and Sam slumps pathetically as all his muscles slowly go lax under the alpha’s command. Dean doesn’t ease off until Sam completely settles under his hands, and then he finally relaxes his hold, stroking a palm down his back like he’s trying to calm a spooked horse. “The fuck was that all about?” he asks, urging Sam around to face him with a hand twisted in his sweat-damp hair.

“I couldn’t,” Sam says, tears thick in his throat. “I can’t…”

Dean just sighs softly in response, the stagnant scent of _pity_ escaping on his breath.

And then Sam starts crying again. Because of course he does. He’s already hit rock bottom—the lowest he foolishly thought he could go—so why not try and drill even deeper? In for a penny, and all that.

“It’s alright,” Dean says after a quiet moment, sweeping his fingers back down over the nape of Sam’s neck. Making soft, meaningless shushing noises as he tries to comfort him.

A hot spike of rage rockets up his spine at his brother’s innocuous words. _It’s alright?_ Sam chokes out a scathing sound in between the hitching sobs. It isn’t _alright._ It isn’t fine, or good, or goddamn _hunky-dory_. Sam can’t control fucking anything about his new fucking body and it’s stretching him to the breaking point. He’s being torn apart from the inside out—his wants and needs caught between his body and his mind and strung so thin that he’s surprised he hasn’t actually snapped yet.

“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean whispers against his temple. “Let me.” He moves in closer, delicately caging Sam against the bed. “It’ll help you feel better. I promise.” Sam breathes through his drying tears and fights the urge to put his fist through the headboard, his ass practically shoving itself back into Dean’s hands without any permission from his conscious mind. “I gotcha, kiddo,” his brother murmurs. “Let me fix this. Please.”

Sam can’t hold it back anymore. He’s sick of trying. It just hurts. “Need you,” he begs wetly.

“S’alright,” Dean says, pressing consolatory kisses into the crook of Sam’s neck and pulling his hips up flush against his own persistent hard-on. _Breeding position_ —Sam’s brain reminds him. _For omegas_. “You can just let go,” Dean promises him softly. Another dry kiss as he lines them up the way they’re supposed to be. “Let it go, baby,” he says as he starts to push in. One long, slow thrust. “It’s okay. I promise it’s okay.”

So Sam does.

He gives in and stops fighting. He lets go, losing himself in the perfect, wet slide of Dean’s cock. Of being fucked good and deep and _right_. The aching emptiness from before quickly vanishes under his brother’s touch, replaced with spine-melting pleasure and an insatiable desire for _more_. Anything. Anything for his alpha. Sam’s headache eases too, and the cramping, the painful heat symptoms gradually lessening with each thrust of Dean’s powerful hips. Carrying him away as Sam lets himself fall further and further into the cloud of sex and spice surrounding him. Dean’s potent, intoxicating scent chasing away anything that isn’t safety and protection and sheer _bliss_. Winding him up tighter and tighter until Sam thinks he just might burst from the exquisite pressure.

They won’t last long, either of them. Not after the torture that Sam’s stubbornness inflicted on them both. Sam can already feel his brother’s knot pushing against his rim. Swollen taut and ready to tie them together. To breed Sam up with his mate’s seed. The awareness sends an electric thrill through every inch of him, a lightning flash so hot that his vision flares white for a minute.

“ _Yes_ ,” Sam hisses through his teeth before he even realizes he’s speaking. “Want it, Dean. Want you to fill me up. Need it.”

Dean growls at the words, clenching his hands so tight around Sam’s hips that there won’t be any unmarked skin left around all the bruises. “Tell me what you need,” he says in a dark, low voice.

“Need _you_ ,” Sam answers on a ragged moan, his erection pulsing in time with his brother’s heartbeat. So turned-on he can barely form full sentences. “Need you to breed me. Want it. Could fill me up with pups.” A brief flicker of thought arcs across his brain— _something about pills, he’d already taken the pills_ —but it’s gone before Sam can catch it. Pulled under by the crushing wave of need trying to drown him. “Gonna make a family,” he pants. “For you. For _us_.”

His brother grunts and _snaps_ his hips deeper, mercilessly pounding against Sam’s prostate until he shoots his load all over the mattress with a drawn-out cry. It doesn’t help. His cock stays hard through it all, not even taking a break in between the explosive orgasm and his newly mounting want. “Yeah, Sammy,” Dean hisses, yanking Sam’s hips closer as he manhandles him into a better angle. “Yeah, sweetheart. Gonna give you everything you want. Gonna fill you up. Breed you full.”

“Need it, Dean. Need it. _Please_.” Sam drops his face into the pillows beneath him and lets out a wrecked groan. Then he shoves back against his brother’s savage rutting and tilts his ass up, wanton and shameless and needy for more. “Please,” he begs again. “ _Please_ , _Alpha_.”

A strangled sound escapes Dean’s teeth as he shoves in as deep as he can go, his knot forcing its way past Sam’s rim— _so easy and painless through all the want and the slick_ —and locking them flush. Sam comes again, humping against the rucked-up covers spread around them, just as Dean shoots off in turn. Slippery, pulsing wetness filling him up just like he’d begged for, warming him from the inside and finally allaying his heat’s endless hunger—if only for one glorious moment.

When Sam eventually comes to, Dean is panting heavily against the back of his neck, displacing tendrils of grimy hair with each sharp puff of breath. It feels like heaven against his gradually cooling skin. “You alright?” his brother finally grumbles once he finds his voice again. The same way he has every time they’ve done this.

Sam just nods in response, not trusting his words to come out the way he wants them to after everything that just happened, and Dean seems content enough at the pseudo-reply. He carefully nudges them both over onto their sides and Sam lets him, neither of them making even the slightest attempt to avoid the wet spot. The whole bed is a fucking wet spot. It’s gross, but there’s no point in cleaning up when they’re just gonna get dirty again in a few hours. Sam lets out an exhausted sigh and stretches as best he can while physically attached to another human being, taking a minute to appreciate the brief respite from his heat. All the aches and pains are gone for now. His low-grade fever is down again. He actually feels somewhat approaching human. There’s a minor hum of embarrassment prickling along his insides from everything he’d just said—from the way he’d _acted_ —but Dean doesn’t seem to be holding it against him, so Sam takes whatever peace he can get from that. In fact, the only way things could be better was if they had any inkling of where this fucking Shen asshole was hiding out.

His brother seems to be riding the exact same wavelength of thought because he just about says as much. “We’re close,” he mumbles into Sam’s hair, hips twitching through another pulse of come and tugging at Sam’s oversensitive rim. “I know we are. We’re gonna find the fossil and square things up.” Another tired kiss left in the bend of his shoulder. “Get you right again. I swear, Sammy.”

Sam silently nods again and chooses to believe the words, accepting the comfort and closeness for what it is. He couldn’t be alone right now if he wanted to—the goddamn _knot_ in his ass dictating his actions for him—but at least it’s Dean. Somehow that makes it better.

A handful of time passes and they slip apart as soon as they’re able. Dean heads back into the bathroom for a quick rinse, but Sam doesn’t really see the point. The sound of crashing water shuts off after barely even two minutes anyway.

“I’m gonna head out for a while,” Dean tosses over his shoulder the instant he walks back into the room—like if he’s quick enough or nonchalant enough, Sam won’t call him out on it. He makes it halfway to his duffel before Sam absolutely does.

“There is no fucking way you have another date,” he says flatly, not even bothering to lift his head from where it’s resting against the limp pillows. “We haven’t left this room in three days.”

Dean rolls his eyes at him as he tugs on a pair of clean boxers. “I’m going after Shen, not trawling for tail.”

“Okay…” Sam frowns, “we could do a sweep of the city.” He tosses the covers back and heads toward his own backpack, ignoring the lingering instability in his legs. “I haven’t dug up much else on him, research-wise, but I guess there’s something to be said for crossing our fingers and hoping we randomly run across him.”

“You’re not coming.”

Sam freezes, one hand hovering over the zipper of his bag. “Excuse me?” he asks icily.

Dean finishes buttoning up his jeans and finally turns to face him, shoulders squared for combat. “You heard me, Sam.”

“Yeah, I _heard_ you,” Sam snipes, “but there’s no way in hell you actually meant what you just said.” He raises an eyebrow, giving his brother the chance to rescind his insane statement, but Dean simply stands there, stone-faced. “That’s ridiculous, Dean,” Sam eventually says. “You’re acting like you think I’m not in my right mind or something.”

His brother’s breath hitches in his chest, and then he drops his eyes, awkwardly fiddling with the clasp of his watchband before continuing. _Oh—_ Sam thinks. And it hurts like a punch to the chest.

“I’m sorry, Sammy,” Dean slowly admits, “but, yeah, that’s _exactly_ what I’m saying.” Sam’s resulting silence grudgingly pulls the rest out of him, like dragging an elephant through the eye of a needle. “Not half an hour ago, you asked me for pups,” he reminds him. “ _Pups,_ Sam.”

And Sam still can’t help the irrational flutter inside that goes all warm and squiggly at just hearing the word. Completely alien to anything he’s ever felt before. So much for Dean not throwing _that_ in his face. “Didn’t hear you complaining then,” he mutters through his teeth, trying to scrape together what little dignity he has left.

“Well it’s not like I could help it!” his brother squawks defensively. “Your stupid pheromones had me in a full-on, goddamn _rut_.” He scrubs a hand back through his short hair, softer now without any product in it. “Do you even actually want kids, Sam? With _me?”_ He lets out a fiercely skeptical sound. “I mean, are you planning on digging up graves while carrying a litter? We gonna bring some fucked-up incest baby on the road with us? _Huh?_ Or teach a toddler how to field strip a handgun?” Dean raises an obnoxiously condescending eyebrow. “’Cause unless you’ve drastically changed your mind on the subject in the last 72 hours, I’m thinking that was just your heat talking. And if it was just your heat making you say that kinda preposterous shit, then I’m thinking it’s not the greatest idea to put a loaded gun in your hands.”

Sam doesn’t even know what prompts him to say it. Stubbornness for the sake of being stubborn. Or maybe it’s just a wild grasp to defend his mental health with the only argument he can think of. “Dad did it.”

Dean hits him with an expression of sheer disbelief. “Dad lost his _mate,”_ he says incredulously. “Plus, he already _had_ us. He had no goddamn choice in the matter and you know that.” He flings out an impatient arm between the two of them. “ _We_ do! And we are not having goddamn pups, Sam. _Ever_.”

Something tickles _false_ at the corners of Sam’s mind at his brother’s statement, and he narrows his eyes until he can pinpoint the source of the faint emotion. _The dusty, rose-petal scent of **longing**. Weakly twining around the edges of the sturdier dam of Dean’s refusal. _ Sam’s mouth drops open as the bleak understanding hits him like a two-ton anvil. But he doesn’t say a word about it. He _can’t_. Not out loud. It would only break them both.

Dean probably doesn’t even realize that Sam has picked up on it yet, continuing to toss his arms around as he rants on about something Sam suddenly doesn’t care enough about to follow. He still isn’t used to having to mask his emotions from his (usually) beta brother. Dean will figure it out eventually though. Of course he will. He’ll remember this moment, and then he’ll know that Sam knows and it’ll gut him. It’s just a matter of time. The very least Sam can do for his brother is to pretend that he’s still oblivious. Give him that small measure of control over what passes for privacy between them—laughable though it may be.

Sam takes a deep, steadying breath, then yanks open his backpack and cards through his laundry for some underwear. No way is he gonna let Dean leave him behind just by virtue of not getting dressed quickly enough. “Y’know,” Sam says sharply, cutting his brother off mid-sentence, “you said some pretty fucked-up stuff back there too.” He firmly relegates his previous thoughts to the furthest corner of his mind and tries to force himself back on an even keel. “So if you think _I’m_ too irrational to be heading after Shen, then I could say the same for you.”

Dean forces out a short exhale through his nose and turns back to his own bag, probably pissed at Sam’s reasonable argument. “I don’t have time to debate this with you,” he says, pulling out the first flannel his hands fumble over and then violently hooking his arms through the sleeves. “The longer we hang around here, fucking around, the farther away Master Po gets.” He suddenly seems to realize that he hadn’t put on a t-shirt first, then clenches his jaw and continues on anyway, doing up the buttons over his bare chest like he’d meant to all along. “Plus, I’ve got a hunch.”

“Well,” Sam snarks with a roll of his eyes, “if you’ve got a _hunch_ , then by all means.” All the sweat from their earlier fuck has dried by now, but his skin somehow still feels coated as he tugs his own undershirt over his head. Maybe his brother was onto something with the whole showering-after-sex thing.

“Look, perps always return to the scene of the crime, right?” Dean explains, stuffing his feet into his boots. “He’s gotta show back up at the store eventually. I’ll just stake it out from a distance and nab the fucker when he surfaces.”

“Dean, that’s ridiculous!” Sam races for a pair of jeans, intent on not falling behind. He’ll go _without_ shoes if he absolutely has to. “Shen isn’t gonna head back to the freaking antiques shop. That’s the one place he _knows_ we’d think to look for him.”

His brother yanks at his laces in exasperation. “Well you got a better idea?”

“Uh, _yeah_ , Dean,” Sam snits dryly. “How about absolutely anything that doesn’t involve you going after the dangerous murderer by yourself without any back-up?”

Dean awkwardly crosses his arms over his chest, nothing else left to do now that he’s fully clothed. “It’s too dangerous for you to tag along right now.”

“Fuck you, ‘too dangerous’,” Sam tosses back with the appropriately facetious finger quotes. “And fuck you, _‘tag along’_. What even makes it any different for you, Dean? You’re just as affected by this thing as I am.”

Dean refuses to answer any of his points with logic, falling back on indiscriminate glaring instead. “You’re not coming with me.”

“Of course I’m coming with you,” Sam scoffs, ignoring his brother just as expertly in turn. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“No, you’re _not!”_

“ _Yes_ , I am,” he insists, flinging a balled-up sock at his brother’s head. “What, you think you can fuck me docile and I’ll stay at home like a good little omega? Well, _newsflash_ , asshole, you don’t get to make my decisions for me just because we’re screwing.”

“I said _‘no’_ , Sam!” Dean finally shouts— _sudden smell of thick_ _smoke like something’s burning_ —his eyes blazing with anger at being disobeyed. “End of fucking discussion!”

Sam freezes at the unexpected aggression—startled into stillness just from the sudden outpouring of alpha rage—then he gets ahold of himself and pulls his lips back into a twisted snarl. Baring his fucking teeth. Dean wants to play dirty? Sam can too. “Yes, _sir_ ,” he hisses.

His brother instantly flinches back like he’s been punched, eyes round with shock at Sam’s pointed words. But he doesn’t take it back. The stark reference to their father’s memory hangs nauseatingly in the air between them, and Sam almost wants to laugh at the hypocrisy of it all. This is what normal people are supposed to feel like when someone brings up a family member in an otherwise sexual context. Comparing Dean to their dad— _now_ —is sickening. Wrong. In fact, it’s almost as depraved as implying that there might be siblings out there who have a relationship one stop past _fraternal_.

Dean just stares at Sam for a long, charged moment, and then he summarily deflates, dropping his shoulders with an apologetic glance. “…You don’t know what you smell like right now, Sam,” he says, uncharacteristically subdued. The first bit of actual truth he’s dropped since they’d first started arguing. “Any alpha within a hundred yards catches your scent, they’re gonna be heading straight for you like a candy bar at a fat camp.” He swallows back whatever emotion is lodged in his throat— _ice-cold fear; the rank, unwashed scent of desperation_ —and finally lifts his head again. “Do you have any idea what would happen if one of them actually _mated_ you? I mean, is that what you want, Sam? You want some random knothead to take you away from me? _Forever?”_

Sam can’t quite bring himself to completely let go of his anger, despite Dean’s genuine attempt at poignancy. “You know,” he says, clipped and low, “there’s a _real_ easy way to fix that.”

His brother’s eyelids lower as understanding slowly washes over him. “We already went over this, Sam. I’m not gonna claim you. It’d fuck everything up.” He suddenly seems to remember a pertinent detail and lifts a hand to jab an accusatory finger at his face. “Plus, you said you understood.”

“Oh, I understand plenty,” Sam spits back. “You didn’t want to be chained to a defective beta who couldn’t feel a mating bond.”

Dean rolls his head back. “ _Jesus Christ_ , I didn’t mean it that way—”

“Well, guess what?” he continues. “I’d sure as hell be able to feel it now.”

Dean doesn’t rise to the easy bait, and it throws Sam off a little. There’s another moment of awkwardness where neither of them say anything at all, so Sam drops down onto the nearest bed—the one they’d most recently sullied—and silently searches under the dust ruffle for his shoes, taking the weird opportunity his brother’s providing to at least finish getting dressed. He only finds one of them before Dean eventually moves again, clenching his fists at his sides like he’s just come to the world’s most devastating conclusion. It unsettles Sam something fierce, but he waits for the hammer to drop anyway.

“It isn’t safe for you out there when you’re like this,” Dean says quietly. Then he takes a deep breath and thins his lips. Sam hates it when he does that, it makes him look like someone else. “Sammy, I’m sorry.” Sam raises an eyebrow, but no explanation follows. He’s just about to ask what his brother possibly has to be sorry for when Dean lifts his head, determination scrawled across his features. ** _“Don’t follow me,”_** he orders, something _extra_ laced through the words.

It takes a second or two for Sam to realize the difference, but by then it’s already too late and Dean is more than halfway across the room. The low tremor of his brother’s _alpha voice_ violently rattles up his spine and locks his feet into place against the shitty motel carpeting, and Sam’s eyes widen in horror as his brain belatedly catches on to the full extent of his body’s newest betrayal. “Dean, don’t you dare,” he says, still mostly in shock. “Don’t you fucking do that to me!”

At least his brother has the decency to look guilty as his hand twitches on the door’s handle. “I have to keep you safe.”

“Dean, I swear to God,” Sam growls darkly. “If you leave this room without me, I will shoot you so full of so many rounds that you’ll be shitting rock salt for a week. I am not kidding, Dean! Don’t you _dare_ walk out that door!”

Dean looks like he’s about to cave for a single second, but then he straightens his back and keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead. **_“You stay under that goddamn blanket, Omega. And you don’t come out from it until I get back.”_** He gives Sam one last reluctant glance, then yanks the door open with a solid pull, quickly slipping through the closing gap before he can change his mind.

“Come back here you _fucking_ _asshole!”_ Sam screams after him, his threats raining uselessly against the heavy door. He tries to lunge after his brother, but the second he slips completely free of the comforter, his body rebels yet again. Seizing up in agony. It’s like he’s _on_ _fire_. It’s like a million, biting ants have burrowed their way under his skin and are crawling down into his abdomen. It’s like every iota of shame and disappointment that his body can dredge up is being thrown at him all at once, crushing him under the knowledge that he’s just disobeyed an _alpha_. Sam somehow manages to grit his teeth and reclaim control of his limbs long enough to drag himself back to the bed and curl up under the blankets—and all of the misery and discomfort immediately shuts off. Blink of an eye. Like it’d never even been there in the first place. He’s still panting through the memory of it all, but the actual pain has vanished. The roaring in his ears slowly fades away too, and it takes Sam almost an entire minute to register that it’s actually the sound of the Impala’s engine. His involuntary little conniption fit giving his brother just enough time to clear the premises.

No.

_No._

It isn’t fucking _fair_.

Sam forces his thoughts past the spinning in his head as he comes to the bleak realization that every single last bit of independence has just been forcibly stripped away from him. The only thing he’d had left that was purely his. Not Dean’s. Not theirs. Not palmed from a motel room or swiped from a Gas-n’-Sip when the clerk wasn’t looking. _His_. And now it’s gone forever. Sam chokes on a surge of impotent rage as a horrifying sense of awareness slowly begins to dawn on him. If he does get stuck like this, then for the rest of his life, any alpha can order him to do anything—absolutely _anything_ —and he’ll be forced to obey. He’ll have no say in the matter whatsoever. And sure, any alpha using their voice on a non-consenting stranger is _technically_ illegal, but Sam knows that it happens. Of course it does. He won’t be able to go anywhere without a chaperone, just for his own safety. That is, unless his brother finally gives in and decides to claim him officially. Then the honor of controlling his every move will go strictly to Dean. And the cherry on top of his irony sundae is that if you’d have asked Sam about it a few days ago, he’d have said that he wasn’t worried at all. He’d barely even let the thought cross his mind. Because it wouldn’t ever happen to him. _Dean_ would never do that to him. _Never_.

Except for the fact that he just did.

Sam curses the universe in general, then shoots a baleful glare at the disgusting comforter that’s just become his prison. The design, a thick curve of sundrop-colored stripes that would look more at home on the side of a van. _Great_. He’s gonna be trapped under a Partridge Family nightmare for who knows how long. Sam twitches his lips to the side as he grudgingly looks on the positive side. At least Dean will be back soon. No matter how heated their fighting got, he would never abandon him while he was in the middle of a heat like this. And he won’t get that far anyway, not when Sam’s going to require his _services_  in a few hours.

 _Actually…_ Sam frowns as he spares the notion a passing thought. He doesn’t exactly know how long it’ll be until he needs his brother again. It’s not like they’ve been keeping specific track or anything. It should be more than an hour or two, but he really isn’t certain how much of a margin they’ve got past that. He’ll need to look it up, just to be safe. Sam’s eyes alight on his laptop across the way, and then he lets out a beleaguered sigh at the impending struggle he’ll have to face in order to wrangle it within reach. _Fan-friggin’-tastic_. He eventually manages to rescue his computer from the other bed simply by stretching out and keeping one calf beneath the covers as he reaches across. It’s a bitch and a half, but he finally succeeds, letting out a miserable little cheer of victory as he collapses back onto the dirty sheets, laptop in hand.

‘TYPICAL OMEGA HEATS’ is the first thing he types into the search engine, and the motel’s free wi-fi only stalls for a second before it’s spitting pages of results back at him. _Must be a popular question_. He clicks on the first link, which ends up taking him to some cheesy ‘Your Body and You’ website that lists helpful tips for newly presenting pre-teens. It looks legit enough, so Sam scrolls down the page to the corresponding header, bypassing the cartoon of a baseball player knocking home runs out of a stadium labeled ‘Alpha’ to click on the housewife cradling a swaddled pup in her arms above the ‘Omega’ link.

 **Congratulations, Omega!** —a cheery block of bright-yellow font informs him. **You are well on your way to becoming an adult. The new changes to your body might seem scary at times, but they are an integral part of what will allow you to experience the magic of childbirth. And once you’re lucky enough to find that special alpha, those same developments are what will enable you to keep your mate happy and attentive.**

 _Right_ —Sam thinks sarcastically. _A ‘happy and attentive mate’. What more could an omega possibly wish for?_ He rolls his eyes at the patronizing advice, then scrolls down the page until he finds something that looks more useful.

**An omega’s heat will usually occur twice a year at regular intervals, but can be brought on early by any number of factors. Puberty, stress, erratic sleeping patterns, or even spending time in close quarters with a highly compatible alpha can trigger an early cycle. So there’s no need to worry unless the irregularity becomes a chronic issue, which, in some cases, can be indicative of a more serious condition…**

He lets out a terse breath at the info, trying not to feel _too_ bitter. Well that explains that, at least. He’d somehow managed to hit four out of the four without even trying. Lucky him. But it _still_ isn’t what he’s looking for. Sam runs a hand over his face in irritation as he idly skims the next paragraph.

**A typical heat can last anywhere from 3-7 days per cycle…**

_Wait—_ Sam jerks his eyes away from the computer screen as he frantically does some quick mental math. Three to seven days—that means…

 _Holy shit_.

He’d been banking on them having a week, at least. They both had. It’s why they’d been bothering with trying to soothe his heat symptoms instead of combing the streets like men possessed. But this is already the third day and, _apparently_ , this stupid, doctor-verified, completely credible website says that it might be all he gets. He and Dean had been so caught up in fucking around and trying to track down Shen that they hadn’t even given a thought to researching his actual _heat_. _Fuck_. If they don’t find the guy by tonight, then… Sam swallows past the lump in his throat as those annoying goddamn tears threaten to spring free again. Then he might be stuck like this. Forever. If Dean’s lead doesn’t pan out, this could be the rest of his life. Forcibly trapped in a motel room on an alpha’s order _‘for his own protection’_.

Well, fuck that. _No_. From this point on, any second could be the last chance Sam’s got, and that is way too important to leave up to one of Dean’s stupid ‘hunches’. If they’re both working on this, then they’ll be doubling the chances of actually sniffing this guy out. And he might still have time. It’s the last, dangling thread of hope that he has to hold onto. They might still be able to fix this.

Sam turns to his laptop again and back-clicks to the search engine’s main page, his hands flying over the keys as he lets the urgency of the moment spur him on. Where would an elderly antiques dealer be hiding out if he suddenly needed to lie low? The apartment in the back of his shop had clearly been vacated, and Sam doubts money would be an object—judging by what he remembers from the style of Shen’s suit—so he could be putting himself up in a hotel. But there’s no paper trail that he’s been able to find. Not under the name the curator had given them, anyway. And, honestly, Robert Shen didn’t exactly seem like the type of guy to already have a stash of fake IDs and credit logged away somewhere. Sam absently runs a thumb over his lips as he goes over the possibilities. He must be squatting somewhere that doesn’t require rent. Some sort of abandoned property? Sam brings up a list of foreclosures in Dover, just in case, but he doubts he’s on the right track. Shen doesn’t seem like the type of guy to enjoy slumming it. Maybe an acquaintance’s place, then? But how would he be able to explain away the reason he was hiding from the cops? Or the heap of random knick-knacks he must have been dragging along with him, considering how he’d already cleared out the main counter before Sam and Dean had showed up the next morning.

_Wait—_

Sam freezes as something important tickles at his brain. How could Shen have carried them all out? Did he bring a suitcase to stuff them all in, like they did? Sam’s train of thought suddenly screeches to a stop. Because that’s what _they_ were originally planning on doing.  He and Dean. They’d brought a duffel bag so they could cram everything into it.

A duffel bag that Sam hadn’t been able to catch even a glimpse of when they’d swept the place the next morning.

A duffel bag that still had one of their spare cellphones stitched into the lining—just in case.

He resists the urge to punch his fist into the air at the triumphant realization. The lazy fucker must have snagged it to use as a carrying case for all of his cursed bullshit. _Yes_. Sam punches in the address of the GPS-tracking website and rattles off the burner’s number, shifting against the bed in impatience as he waits for the stupid green bar to load. The page finally produces a hit with a helpful little _ding_ , and he eagerly clicks on the results.

 

**Location found for: (785) 555-6362 ~**

**435 E Loockerman Street, Unit #6, Dover, Delaware.**

The map pop-up unfolds with another click, and Sam pores over the street view. It looks like an old series of storage units, nestled up right along the St Jones River. He lets out an amused scoff. Not exactly the Ritz-Carlton. _Good_. Sam reaches for his phone to call Dean, then belatedly realizes that it’s sitting on the motel table, halfway across the room. “Of course,” he mutters under his breath.

Sam runs his tongue over his teeth as he tries to think up a possible workaround. Maybe he could tie something together? Create kind of a makeshift lasso that he’d be able to hook his phone with? Sam groans and drops his head into his hands at the ridiculous idea. Maybe his heat’s starting to curdle his brain again. If only his headstrong, stubborn dick of a brother hadn’t ordered him to stay under the blanket. _Although…_ He slowly lifts his head from his fingers as he thinks about it. Dean didn’t say anything about him having to stay in the _room_. Or even on the bed. All Sam has to do is stay under the coverlet and not follow Dean back to the antiques shop…

He sets his computer aside, carefully wraps the sex-soaked blanket around his shoulders, and slowly attempts to stand. Sam can’t help but wince a little in fear of the horrific pain starting up again…but nothing happens. He hesitantly wrenches open one eye to make sure. He’s standing. A good foot from the bed. And nothing hurts—there’s just the merest prickling running along his nerves, kinda like that fuzzy static feeling of a limb falling asleep. His hormones clearly aware that he isn’t following the _intent_ of his alpha’s order, but not disobeying the specific mandates either. _Yes! He’d fucking done it!_ Sam hitches the blanket higher and strides across the room to his phone, but the instant he dials Dean’s number, a mush of tinny, hard rock blaring comes rattling from the opposite nightstand. His brother had left his goddamn _phone_ behind. He’d been so focused on fucking Sam over and slipping away unscathed that he’d completely forgotten it. _Dammit!_

Sam lets his eyes flick back to the address still open on his laptop and gnaws at his bottom lip. The storage space is _technically_ walking distance from the motel. Yeah, it’ll take a little longer than it would if he was driving—their slim jim is still in the Impala’s trunk with Dean, so jacking a car is out, and hitching a ride would be too risky, given the circumstances—but he thinks he could make it. Sam does some quick mental math in his head. The trip shouldn’t take him more than two hours or so. It’ll be cutting it damn close with the resurgence of his heat, but it won’t matter once he gets there, anyway. All he has to do is sneak in, grab the sapphire out of their duffel, and smash the thing into itty-bitty pieces. Maybe set the remains on fire if that’s not good enough. A faint wisp of arousal curls through Sam’s abdomen, as if to remind him of the ever-ticking clock, but he shoves it out of his mind. He’ll make it in time. Sam knows he will. He’ll be fine.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  

The unceasing passage of time is a goddamn _bitch_.

Hiking through miles of unpaved marshland with a heavy, pheromone-drenched comforter wrapped around his torso takes almost twice as long as Sam thought it would. As it turns out, this stretch of the St Jones River is more of a nature preserve than anything else, and the meandering, overgrown pathways add exponentially to his projected travel time. Thankfully, the sun had taken pity on him and set a few minutes ago, but the encroaching darkness doesn’t seem to be stopping Sam from _dripping_ sweat. His abdomen is cramping up again, and his headache’s back, and every single time he shifts enough to get a whiff of his and Dean’s scents, twined together and ground into the very stitching of the blanket he’s carrying, he has to bite back a tortured whine.

This was a stupid fucking idea. He should have thought it through. Or at least prepared better. Sam knows they must have something—omegas—some sort of suppressant for heats. Hormone patches or pills or something. He’s seen the commercials. At least, he _thinks_ he’s seen the commercials. His head is all muzzy and it’s getting harder to think.

A dark shape suddenly swoops by overhead, an owl probably, and the flap of its heavy wings startles Sam rigid before he finally realizes that he’s still alone. He’s safe. There’s no one else out here. Just him, and the endless click of the cicadas, and the soothing rush of the river beside him. Though Sam can’t help but wonder what a random hiker would think if they happened to see him like this. Some lunatic wandering the back roads with a come-stained blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cape. Sam snorts at the ridiculous image his mind’s eye reflects back at him. His only consolation is that most people would probably run screaming before they could catch a glimpse of his face. _Unless they were an unmated alpha._ He shoves down the irrational bolt of excited lust that stabs through him at the thought and tries to force himself to feel terrified about the possibility.

It doesn’t help. That empty, aching arousal starts clawing at his insides again— _he needs to be filled, needs to be bred_ —and Sam chokes back another frustrated sob. _No_. _He’s gotta find Shen_. Sam must be getting close by now. He’s gotta be right on top of this place. He’s been walking for _hours_.

And like his prayers are suddenly being answered, Sam manages to pick up a hint of a scent on the breeze. _Dust and sheets of old paper_. **_Beta_**. It doesn’t take the edge off the ache inside of him. Makes it worse, if anything. Forces him to linger on exactly what he’s missing just by contrast. But that doesn’t matter right now. He has to follow the scent, he has to find Shen, he has to… Has to…

Sam can’t help himself, the longing too much for him to fight. His senses automatically reach out through the darkness, trying to locate a suitable mate. Trying to seek out what his overheated body is _screaming_ for. He finally picks up the scent of an alpha. Male. A short distance away, but not anything unmanageable. Calmly strolling along the water with his omega girlfriend. Sam can hear their faint laughter floating up from the other side of the riverbank. A date probably, but he can smell that he hasn’t claimed her yet. He could race his way over there instead. Drop to his elbows and present and try to get the alpha to knot him. Get him to take away the burning ache. _To hold him tight and breed him full and claim him and—_

Sam freezes in place once he realizes that he’s already got one foot hovering over the churning river. God, what the _hell_ is he doing? He’s practically begging for something awful to happen to him, blindly stumbling about out in public the way he is. There are _horror_ _stories_ about what happens when an alpha catches an unmated omega in heat. He can’t control himself while he’s like this. There’s no way in hell a rutting alpha would be able to.

Sam was supposed to stay inside. Omegas are supposed to stay inside. His alpha _told_ him to stay inside. He lets out a wounded noise and wraps the motel comforter tighter around himself until the uncomfortable prickling of his own disobedience starts to abate.

 _Shen_. That’s what he needs to focus on. He needs to find Shen’s storage unit. He needs to grab the sapphire and smash the thing. The curator’s scent is faint enough that he probably isn’t at home. Sam must just be picking up the lingering aftermath of his last visit. Maybe he’s actually staying somewhere else and he stashed the duffel in the facility for safekeeping. Sam crosses his fingers and follows the trail. He can only hope.

He stumbles through a sparse patch of willowy saplings and finally sets eyes on the faded gray walls of one of the warehouses. _Thank fucking Christ._ Sam uses the edge of the blanket to wipe a trickle of sweat from his forehead, then staggers around to the front.

**Unit #4**

They must all be separate like this. Some sort of cheap, outdoor construction. Sam waves the thought away and jogs to the second one over, ignoring the worrisome trembling in his legs. He finally makes it to number six and almost _cries_ he’s so relieved. The flimsy wood door is locked, but a swift kick directly underneath the deadbolt sends the frame crashing in.

_“Nǐ zài gànshénme?”_

The angry burst of Chinese catches Sam off guard, and it takes his heat-fogged brain a few seconds to catch up.

“This is my unit!” the man shouts. “You can’t just break in like—” His accuser steps into the light and immediately freezes, eyes going wide. It’s Shen. He’s here after all, looking just the slightest bit rumpled and worse for the wear. His fancy suit torn and creased, and his pristine white gloves covered in dust. Being on the run clearly isn’t doing him any favors. “How did you find me?” he barks at Sam. “Impossible! You should be _dead_.”

The certainty of the comment hits him funny, and Sam can’t stop himself from questioning it. “Dead? Why would I be—?” But then he gets it. Of course he does. “You thought I was an alpha,” Sam says in slow realization. “Because you couldn’t scent me, and I look—” He cuts himself off and lets every single bit of helpless frustration and rage from the last few days build until it reaches a breaking point. “I was a _beta_ , Shen! You seriously thought that this would—what, _break_ me?” Sam strides forward into the grimy space, trying to ignore how the brightly-striped coverlet still hanging from his shoulders probably means that this is the least menacing he’s ever looked. “You thought I’d off myself ‘cause I couldn’t take it?” he asks, practically snarling. “You thought I’d give up and you’d be in the clear?” Sam finally backs the curator into the far corner. Nowhere to go. “I guess I’d just be one more dead body to add to your count, huh?”

“I killed no one,” Shen spits back at him, his eyes frantically darting around the space, looking for a way out. “If a few pieces of _street trash_ decide to play with things beyond their ken, it’s no fault of mine.”

Sam tangles a hand in the man’s lapels and _shoves_ him back against the concrete wall. “You murdered two kids in cold blood!” he shouts. “ _Kids!_ They were eighteen fucking years old!” Another fierce knock against the wall and Sam hopes he’s at least fractured a rib. “Where’s the sapphire?” he asks, low and threatening.

Shen’s face breaks into a slow, cracking smile, a thin, reedy laugh escaping from his throat. “It’s right behind you, _Omega_.” Sam grits his teeth and ignores the taunt, keeping his eyes on the man in front of him in case he decides to try any more of his tricks. “They’re in the duffel bag on the lowest shelf, both gemstones,” Shen explains, darkly amused. “But how will you know I’ll still be here when you turn back around? I’ve vanished before, you think I can’t again?” The curator chuckles once more, a sound like the splintering of rotten wood, and Sam can’t find anything other than cruelty in his dark eyes. “It’s very simple, _Agent_. You can have your cure or you can take me in. _Choices, choices…_ ”

Sam looks deep into those cruel, dark eyes and makes his decision. _Choices_ , indeed.  “I don’t think that’s gonna be a problem,” he says quietly.

Sam should have brought his gun. Made this quick and clean and easy. But he doesn’t need it. Not really. He slowly reaches up and encircles Shen’s throat with both hands. He’ll only need to keep squeezing until he can finally feel the man’s trachea crumple underneath his thumbs, let entropy take it from there. It’ll be easier than strangling him all the way to death. And _Jesus Christ_ , how fucked up is it that he knows that?

“What are you doing?” Shen’s eyes go wide as he scrambles over Sam’s grip. Those white silk gloves the only things protecting Shen from his own merchandise’s effect—and too finely-sewn to get any purchase on Sam’s skin. “You can’t,” he chokes out roughly. “That isn’t—”

“That isn’t _what_ , Shen? Fair?” Sam narrows his eyes and tightens his grip. “You want to talk to me about _fair?”_

Shen seems to give up on the fruitless attempt to loosen Sam’s fingers and goes for the comforter draped over his shoulders instead, clawing for anything he can reach.

Sam heart clenches in fear once he feels the beta hook his fingers into it. “No, Shen, _don’t—”_ But it’s too late. The blanket is wrenched away from him with one solid yank, and a _firestorm_ of stinging agony races through his veins just as the material gets tangled up around Shen’s still-struggling body. Sam stumbles against the wall, clenching his jaw and forcing a broken roar through his teeth at the unrelenting pain, but he doesn’t let go of Shen’s throat. He keeps pressing down with his thumbs until he can feel the muted, wet _snap_ of the man’s windpipe. Sam keeps his arms locked rigid through it all, tears spilling from his eyes at the blistering agony. The fire ants crawling under his skin. White silk scrabbles at Sam’s face, slipping off the sweat at his temples, but it’s already too late. There’s nothing anyone can do for him now.

Shen finally, slowly gasps his last breath and slumps to the floor. His dark, glassy eyes staring out across the warehouse floor. No cruelty left in them at all. Just the fear and anger of his last moments.

Sam drops to the ground as well, his muscles twitching spasmodically under the torturous burning, and frantically reaches out to tug at his blanket—but Shen’s body is lying heavy on top of it and he can’t get the damn thing to move more than a couple inches. He can’t even manage to get a foot underneath the spread of it without flipping the fabric out of his reach. “Fucking _shit_ ,” Sam whines pitifully. Cursing mostly to himself considering that no one is around (or _alive_ enough) to hear it. He finally manages to drag himself the few inches across the floor out of sheer determination and willpower, slipping his hand under one corner of Shen’s sunnily-colored death shroud, and then slumping in relief as the burning vanishes in an instant.

There's a strange, rumbling vibration sound coming from the concrete below him—and quite rudely interrupting Sam’s enjoyment of a world without pain—before he even realizes it’s his phone ringing. He gets it out of his pocket after only two or three tries and exhaustedly presses the ‘answer’ button.

 _“Where are you?”_ his brother’s voice barks out over the shitty connection.

Most of Sam’s brain is still caught up in being surprised that the call even came through, all the way out here, and it takes him a few seconds to answer. “Hello to you, too,” he snarks exhaustedly. It sounds more like a death wheeze.

Dean is clearly unamused by his weak attempt at a joke. “Where _are_ you?” he repeats stiffly.

Sam lets out a frustrated groan, trying to free more of his blanket with a weak tug. “I left the address open on my laptop.”

“I’m in the car.”

Oh. Yeah, he guesses that makes sense. Dean probably would’ve panicked at his unexpected absence and been out the door like a shot. Sam can even hear the faint rumble of the highway in the background from across the line. He slumps back against the wall and tries to skim the information off the top of his—admittedly fuzzy—head. “Storage space,” he says eventually. “Unit number six. Right along the river.” He scrunches his eyes closed as he tries to remember more. “Street’s called ‘Lookyloo’ or something ridiculous like that.”

There’s a few silent seconds of only his brother’s shallow breathing. “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t fucking move.” And then the line cuts off with a short crackle of static.

Sam allows himself to rest for another few meager minutes of peace before his heat starts crawling up on him again. “God, _seriously?”_ he growls to himself. Apparently, even the tinny sound of his brother’s voice over a phone line was enough alpha to kick his biology back into gear. Y’know what? He’s done. He is sick and tired and _done_.

He gets both hands around the tangled mess of fabric and _pulls_ at it like a cheesy magician with a restaurant tablecloth. Shen’s body goes rolling into the wall at the force, and Sam doesn’t fucking care. He flips the entire thing over one shoulder and staggers to his feet, making his way across the warehouse floor to their duffel in the far corner. Lowest shelf, just like Shen had said.

The bag, once he gets it unzipped, is stuffed full of all sorts of potentially terrifying surprises, so Sam wraps his hand up in one corner of the comforter before sifting through the assorted antiques. Better safe than sorry, and all that jazz. It doesn’t take more than a minute for him to find what he’s looking for.  Both sapphires, back in their glass case. Pale and hollow and glimmering in the weak light of the storage unit.

Sam carefully unlocks the box and gets his blanket-wrapped hand around one of the stones. He lifts his arm up to smash the thing against the cement flooring—then pauses, suddenly and irrationally terrified that this isn’t the correct way to break the spell. That shattering the thing will just make everything permanent.

 _Would that be so bad?—_ an insidious voice whispers from somewhere deep inside of him. _Being stuck like this? You could give Dean exactly what he wants. A perfect little omega. Keep him happy, keep him satisfied. And he’d **claim** you. Only thing that was stopping him before. No alpha wants a disobedient, contrary beta. Too dry. Not submissive enough. He couldn’t even knot you properly like that. This could fix everything. Just let the spell be. Dean would never leave you for another omega. Not if he had one at home…_

And it’s true. That’s the bitch of the whole thing. Dean hasn’t even so much as looked _sideways_ at anyone else since this whole thing started. Not that he’d had much of an opportunity, holed up the way they were these past few days. But there’d be no reason for Dean to seek out anyone else. Not if he could give his brother everything he needed.

Sam thinks back over the last three days. Was it even that bad, really? Sure, he’d been struggling and scared at the unfamiliarity of it all, but Dean was there every step of the way. Protecting him, taking away the pain, making him feel good. _God_. Making him feel _so_ fucking good. And, okay, the whole omega thing kinda makes Sam hate himself a little bit, but maybe he could learn to live with it. He could live with it if it makes his brother happy. If it keeps Dean _with_ him. His heat flares up again, causing him to lurch to the side before he can steady himself, and the helpless feeling makes Sam want to claw out his own insides. He hates it, but he could endure it for Dean...right?

A roar of tires chewing up dirt drifts in from the marsh outside, and he stares at the gemstone clutched in his fist. _What’s it gonna be?_ Another stab of feverish want punches at his belly and Sam knows that he can’t. He can’t take it anymore. Not on his own like this. Sam wants to feel like himself again. He _needs_ to.

So Sam rears back and _pitches_ the thing, hard as he possibly can. The sapphire instantly shatters on impact, sending little, sparkling pieces of the gem flying in every direction. They seem to hang in the air for a moment, suspended and twinkling in the dim lighting of the unit, before finally tinkling back onto the concrete like a shower of broken glass.

And then the pain starts.

Sam can’t stop himself from laughing through the cramps. It worked. It fucking _worked_. He drops to his knees and lets the wave of magic sweep over his body, fixing him from the inside out. The pain finally ebbs away after a few minutes and Sam balls up his comforter and launches it with every bit of force he can scrounge up, flinging the thing as far away from him as he can. The burning doesn’t start up again. He doesn’t have to obey Dean’s order anymore. Another peal of laughter spills out of his throat and Sam falls back against the dusty floor, spread out flat and grinning up at the corrugated metal of the room’s ceiling, as he hears his brother come sprinting in through the broken door.

“Sam!” Dean shouts. “Jesus Christ, _Sammy!”_ He stumbles over his own feet trying to make his way across the room, the heavy tread of his boots the only thing Sam can make out as he comes closer. He can’t smell him anymore. Sam isn’t sure how he feels about that. Dean finally drops to his knees next to his recumbent form, sweeping his hands over every bit of him he can reach. “Are you alright?”

Sam makes to answer his brother, but he has a sudden whisper of a thought and the words get caught in his throat. Dean might be pissed that he’s changed back. He might be _disappointed_. Sam wonders if he’d even be able to tell right now past the overwhelming scent of sweat and residual slick. He might not even know. “I’m a beta again,” Sam says, searching for a reaction— _any_ sort of reaction from his brother. He doesn’t get one.

“That’s fantastic,” Dean says distractedly, yanking Sam’s face from one side to the other as his hands brush desperately over his throat and shoulders. “Are you hurt? Did anybody touch you?” He gets an arm behind Sam’s head and forces him forward, fingers groping blindly against the nape of his neck until Sam suddenly realizes what his brother is doing. It’s like a bucket of ice water being dumped over his head.

Dean’s searching for a claiming mark.

“Dean, nobody…” Sam chokes a little on the awful thought. “Nobody touched me. I’m not—I’m not mated to anyone else. I promise.”

His brother’s fingers finally still, and Dean drops his head down between his shoulders, letting out a broken sound. “ _Fuck_ ,” he breathes. “Thank god. I thought that someone might’ve—” He scrapes a hand over his face, then glances up at Sam with red-rimmed eyes, tears still brimming at the corners where he hasn’t quite managed to wipe them away. He must have been terrified the whole drive over. “I thought that you—” Dean starts, but then he breaks off with another stutter of breath, trying to pull himself back together. “What would I have done?” he asks so quietly that Sam can barely hear him.

He doesn’t want to even _imagine_ the sheer horror of something like that happening. Of being ripped so forcibly from the man he loves, even despite the occasional idiocy and bullheadedness. So instead, Sam reaches up to wrap his palms around Dean’s face, pulling him down into a passionate, heartfelt kiss. Dean lets out a ragged sigh as he relaxes into Sam’s touch, closing his eyes and pouring every bit of relief and caring he has into the soft slide of his tongue. Sam savors the gorgeous press of their lips for one, shining moment. Then he hauls back and punches his brother right in the fucking mouth.

“Ow! _Jesus_ , what the fuck?” Dean yanks a hand up to his jaw and prods at his split lip with a painful-looking wince.

“You _ever_ use your voice on me like that again, Dean, I swear to God I will shoot you in the goddamn kneecap,” Sam snaps heatedly.

His brother’s eyes instantly go soft at the threat, his whole body drooping in guilty understanding. “Yeah,” he says. “Fair enough.” Dean slowly leans back in for another kiss, then hesitates, tossing Sam a wary glance. “You gonna pop me one again?”

Another laugh bubbles up out of Sam’s lungs and he yanks Dean down to meet him, wrapping him up in his arms and losing himself in the warm, solid feel of his brother. “I killed the bad guy, by the way,” Sam mumbles into his neck. “With absolutely no help from you, Mr. ‘I Think He’s At the Antiques Shop’. So you’re _welcome_.”

They make it back to their motel room in under thirty minutes, much easier now that Dean is driving and there aren’t any more flares of painful arousal punching at Sam’s innards. Dean doesn’t let go of him the whole drive over, their fingers tangled together over the bench seat like Sam’s very touch can chase away the horrible what-ifs his brother must have had running across his brain the past few hours. Sam doesn’t complain, not even for a moment, but that insidious whisper from before starts to swim through his mind again. Hissing that Dean is only all over him because of the lingering omega pheromones. Because of the residual scent of his heat that Sam hasn’t scrubbed from his skin yet. That he’s disappointed. That Sam isn’t what he wants—at least, not like _this_.

Sam takes a shower the instant they get back (right after swapping rooms for one that hadn’t been playing host to a sex-crazed _animal_ for most of the last week). And yes, he’s suitably desperate to feel clean for the first time in days, but mainly he’s just determined to deal with the niggling fear still nipping at his heels. To rip the Band-Aid off and face the music. If Dean can’t be content with him as a beta anymore after what he’d had, if he wants to go back to other omegas, then Sam might as well get it over with now.

But his brother just pulls him back onto the bed the instant Sam steps out of the bathroom, wrapping his arms around his waist and tucking him in against his chest like nothing’s changed at all. Dean even shoves his face into the crook of his neck and rubs it over his skin, that weird little thing he always does, and Sam finally gets it. Dean is marking him. Rubbing his scent off on Sam’s skin so that anyone who gets close enough will be able to tell that he’s spoken for. It’s what he’s been doing all this time. Sam had just never realized. The slithering fear in his brain curls up and goes silent, and Sam lets it go. He can put it away in the wake of everything else that’s happened, at least for tonight.

“I kinda missed this, y’know?” his brother says after a few minutes, his voice rumbling low and soft.

“Clean sheets?” Sam asks sarcastically.

“No, moron. Your scent.” Dean pauses and rethinks his words. “Er— _this_ one, at least.”

Sam chuckles faintly at the compliment, tangling their legs together under the covers. “What,” he jokes, “you didn’t like the last one?”

Dean smiles into his skin. “Nah,” he says contentedly, closing his eyes and tugging Sam in even closer. “That one was good, too.” 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

 

“Oh _God_ , Dean,” Sam hisses against his brother’s temple, his arms wrapped tight around strong, freckled shoulders as bounces himself in Dean’s lap. _“Oh, God.”_

It had taken two and a half weeks for Sam to even _begin_ to start to think about _maybe_ having sex again, and so far their inaugural run has been going fantastically.

“Yeah, Sammy,” his brother growls. “C’mon.” Dean tightens his grip around Sam’s lower back and yanks him back down onto his knot, _hard_.

The stretch stings a bit as it pushes at his rim, but Sam savors the bright spark of pain, letting it slice through the molasses-thick feeling of pleasure otherwise surrounding him. “Fuck, I’m gonna come,” he groans, rocking back until Dean can almost fit inside. They’d used enough lube to grease up a Slip-n’-Slide, and Sam grinds himself down against his brother’s lap until he can feel the swollen base of his knot finally pop inside his hole. He bites back on a hiss, hating what the sound of his pain does to his brother’s mood, but Dean doesn’t seem to notice anyway, lost as he is in the sheer physical sensation of it all.

“ _God_ , baby,” Dean lets out in a rough moan. He grits his teeth and reaches out to catch hold of Sam’s dick jutting up between them. Full and thick, the way it’s supposed to be. “C’mon, Sammy,” he mumbles, so drunk with arousal he’s tripping over all his consonants. “Come for me.” Dean’s palm is slick with lube, expertly fisting his erection, and the thick stretch of his knot is pressing relentless against his rim, and it doesn’t take long for Sam to go shooting off like a rocket, cock pulsing wetly between them and striping an arc of glistening white across his brother’s chest.

“Fuck,” Dean groans, pulling Sam hard against his lap until he’s falling off the cliff right behind him. His cock pulses once, and then relaxes, his knot quickly deflating again without an omega around. Dean slips out with a goofy smile on his face and a pleased groan, and Sam ignores the brief throb of regret at the memory of how fucking perfect it felt to be tied.

He swallows back his nostalgia and glances down at his brother, trying to gauge where he’s at. Dean just fixes him with a half-lidded grin once he catches Sam staring, sated and happy, but he’s doesn’t look _wrecked_ the way he did before. Not like when he was spending the better part of twenty minutes coming his brains out, wrapped around Sam and holding him close while they were twined together in every single way possible. Not exhausted and spent and thoroughly, _profoundly_ fulfilled.

Dean presses a quick kiss to the underside of his chin, then tucks his face into Sam’s neck and inhales. He leaves his arms locked around his lower back, keeping them pressed up against each other through the afterglow. Maybe like he’s missed this. Like he’s enjoying the closeness now that Sam’s back to himself. _Or_ …maybe it’s a cheap imitation of being tied together, the way they were able to before. Like the sex isn’t quite doing it for him without all the pheromones and he’s trying in vain to recapture their earlier spark.

“Dean,” Sam says softly, almost afraid to actually go through with his question. His brother hums for him to continue, lightly nuzzling into the side of his neck. “Are you…?” He backtracks, then changes his mind. “What I mean is, is this…enough? For you?”

Dean goes still. Then he slowly pulls back to look him in the eye, concern lurking in the depths of his gaze. “Sam, what are you talking about?”

Sam shifts a little awkwardly where he’s still wrapped up in his brother’s arms. “Well, it isn't enough, is it?” he lets out in a huff of exasperation. “It’s not the same, right? It isn’t as good as it was before.”

“Sammy, I’m _good_ as is,” Dean says, giving him a weird look. “I’m freaking thrilled.” Then he pauses, eyes narrowing as he comes to a realization. “Are you?”

“What?” Sam reflexively opens his mouth to refute the claim, then stops. Actually thinks about it. It’s not like their sex isn’t good. It’s always been good between them. Hell, it’s freaking fantastic…but it isn’t _Earth-shattering_ the way it was when he was an omega. Sam had hated every goddamn second of what he’d had to go through those few days, except for the sex itself. The sex he’d loved. Even when he’d _hated_ it, he’d still loved it. And now, after everything, he misses it. Ain’t that a fucking bitch? He _misses_ it.

But really…it’s not even about that, is it?

“It’s not the sex, Dean,” he says listlessly, untangling himself from his brother so he can stand.

“Alright, fine,” Dean tosses back, letting him slip away. “Then what’s got your panties all in a knot? ‘Cause you’re really ruining the whole Afternoon Delight thing.”

Sam stands and violently ignores the slick sensation of lube dripping down his thighs. Ignores the lightning flash of memory it brings back. “It’s that this isn’t enough for _you_.”

“Sam, I just said it was fine—”

“Yeah, but it’s _not_ , Dean. Is it?” he bulldozes over him. “You can’t be happy with just me. You need an omega, and unless that omega is me, you’re gonna go find one out there somewhere.” Sam flings a hand out at the sun streaming through the chintzy motel curtains to illustrate his point, then gradually lets it drop back to his side. “And why shouldn’t you?” he continues, more subdued. He’s holding Dean back, he knows he is. Alpha/beta mating is almost unheard of outside the seedier fetish sites. (And, yes, Sam may have _accidentally_ clicked on an ad or two during his tenure at Stanford, but he’s taking that particular fun fact to his grave.) As long as they’re together, he’s keeping his brother from what he needs.

Dean falls back on the bed with an aggrieved sigh. “Sam, where the fuck is this even coming from? I don’t need an omega.” Then he lifts just his head up, leaving the rest of his body lax and sprawled out across the pale sheets. “Unless that’s what _you_ want,” he frowns. “Is that what this is?”

“No,” Sam spits out, then he tosses his head. “I don’t know. _No_.”

“God, just fucking pick one,” Dean says tiredly. “Seriously, Sam. You bitch over being a beta, then you bitch over being an omega, and now you’re back to bitching over being a beta _again?”_

“It’s fucked up, Dean,” he says, spanning a hand between them. “What we have when we’re like this. You can’t argue that.”

“Well, maybe I’m a little fucked up too,” his brother says wearily, dropping his head back against the mattress. “I like that you’re a beta, Sam. I _like_ that you can kick any alpha’s ass six ways from Sunday and have my back when a hunt goes sideways.” He pauses, running a frustrated hand over his eyes. “But that doesn’t mean that I didn’t like omega you or anything,” he groans roughly. “It’s still you. Either way. Yeah, maybe a little more… _delicate—_ ”

“ _Seriously_ , Dean?”

“Look, I’m just saying that—” He takes a moment to collect his thoughts. “Taking care of you? It ain’t a chore. It’s kind of what I’m made for. So if that’s what you want, then I’m gonna be right there with you.” Dean finally pushes himself to his feet, padding across the room to stand next to Sam at the window. “If you wanna be an omega again,” he says, slipping his arms around Sam’s waist, “then go do it.”

And maybe he does. How is he even supposed to tell? “Tell me what _you_ want,” Sam pleads, twisting around in Dean’s grip. “What you want me to be. I’ll do it, just _tell_ me.”

His brother just shakes his head, hint of a smile playing at his lips. “Want you to be you, Sammy. Want you to be happy. S’all I need, man.” He presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then says, “Look, we’ve still got one sapphire left.” And it’s true. They do. Along with a host of other potentially dangerous cursed objects. They’d just zipped up the duffel bag and tossed it in the trunk after cremating Shen. Intent on leaving it in there until the next time they happened to pass by Black Rock. Dean huffs out a breath against his neck, pulling Sam back out of his thoughts. “If you wanna go spend some quality time with the thing,” he continues, “then I ain’t gonna be breathing over your shoulder. Use it or smash it, Sam. Whatever’s gonna make you happy.”

“I don’t—” Sam meets his brother’s eyes for a long moment, then drops his gaze to the carpet. “That isn’t it,” he says again.

Dean tosses his head back in exasperation, half-heartedly shoving at Sam’s chest. “Sam, go be a goddamn alpha if that’s what’ll end this. Or a chick. Makes no difference to me. Hell, you could be a fucking _turtle_ for all I’d care.”

He can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips at that one. “Turtles aren’t sexy.”

“Not generally speaking, no. Still wouldn’t give a shit though.”

Sam makes a face. “You saying you’d wanna fuck me if I was a turtle?” he asks dryly.

His brother gives him a look like he’s lost his mind. “ _No_. But I’d keep you in a little turtle box, and jack off three times a day, and make sure you got plenty of whatever the fuck it is that turtles eat.” Dean lets out an amused snort and runs a hand over his mouth. “Actually, a break from all the nagging would probably be a nice change of pace.”

“Look, Dean, it’s not _that_ ,” Sam sighs.

“Then what the fuck _is_ it?” he asks in exhaustion. “You keep talking in fucking circles, man.”

“I want to be enough for you,” Sam says, cutting his brother off before he can derail the seriousness of the conversation. “I want it to be us, Dean. _Just_ us. And if—” He breaks off and pins his brother with a heartfelt stare. “What do I have to do to make that happen?”

“Nothing,” Dean whispers, reaching up to stroke a hand along Sam’s cheekbone. “Sammy, if that’s what this is about…” His voice trails away in soft understanding. “You want us to be mates,” Dean says slowly. “That’s what you asked for before, and I—” He shakes his head, then changes tracks. Furrows his brow and looks up at Sam with raw honesty in his eyes. “After what happened back in Dover, I thought I’d lost you. I thought that some _fucking asshole stranger_ ,” he emphasizes the hissed words with a low, rumbling growl, “had snatched you up and that was that. And _god_ , baby,” he breathes, “I was so scared. You don’t even know.” Dean lets his eyes flutter shut for a moment and he keeps them closed through a long exhale. When he finally opens them again, they’re glinting with steely determination. “Anything,” he says decidedly. “I’ll do anything to stop that from happening.”

“Dean, you don’t mean that.” Sam tilts his forehead down to rest against his brother’s. “You’d never be able to knot again. _Ever_.”

Dean lets out an incongruous chuckle at the words, like he’s laughing at himself. “I can’t believe I’m saying this,” he mutters under his breath, then he looks back up to fix Sam with a wry expression. “Sammy, if the cost of us being together was for me to give up sex _entirely_ , I’d do it.”

Sam doesn’t say a word in response. He just lifts a single, sarcastic eyebrow.

“Alright, don’t get me wrong,” Dean adds quickly, jabbing a finger between them before Sam can actually call bullshit. “I wouldn’t be _happy_ about it or anything. I’d whine about it constantly and I’d be a goddamn nightmare to live with and I’d probably drive you up the fucking wall, but…I’d do it, Sam. I would.” He gives him a one-shouldered shrug. “So, if you’re just asking me to give up knotting? Hell, that’s nothing.” Dean lets a slow smile crawl across his face and reaches out to tuck a strand of Sam’s hair back behind his ear. “Easy choice,” he says. “I’d do it in a heartbeat.” His brother leaves his palm against the side of his face, squeezing a little before taking it away. “It’s _better_ , Sammy. It’s better with you. I mean, yeah, sex is pretty much always fun, and the big finish is nice with an omega and all, but then it’s just a half-hour of awkward spooning with some clingy stranger.” He makes a face and tosses Sam a fake shudder. “Not to mention the whole time all I’m doing is thinking about what you’re up to. Swear to god, dude. I’d rather stay in and watch shitty motel TV with you any day of the week.”

Sam can’t even speak. He doesn’t have anything to say to a confession of that magnitude.

“ _Or_ ,” Dean continues at Sam’s silence, scrubbing a hand over his face, “if you wanna go back to what we had, the sex and the tying and everything that comes with, then we can do that.” He tilts his head up, meets Sam’s eyes. “Like I said, man. If being an omega is what’s gonna ring your bell, then I’m with you all the way.” Then his brother snaps his fingers as he thinks of something else. “Plus, there’s no way it would always be that hard. I mean, it _couldn’t_ be. You got dropped right into the middle of a goddamn heat on your first go. That’s gotta be, like, tripping over a black cat and falling under a ladder and smashing a mirror kinda luck.” He tosses him a teasing grin, then gradually lets his voice ease back to serious. “Look, I know I can be a stupid, fucking knothead sometimes, but— Sammy, if you really want me to claim you, then I’ll claim you. Beta or omega…whichever way that is.” Dean lifts up one of Sam’s hands between both of his own and presses a kiss to the knuckles. “Anything you want. Just tell me what you need from me.”

Sam remains frozen for a solid minute, his mouth opening and closing without making any sounds. “I—I don’t know.”

“Well, let me know when you figure it out.”

“We can be mates?” Sam asks again, latching onto his brother’s fingers before he can pull them away. Needing to know for sure. “For real? You’re not gonna change your mind?”

Dean shakes his head with a soft smile. “We can do this right now, darlin’, if that’s what you want.”

“I want…” Sam finally drops their joined hands and lets his arms hang numb at his sides. “I want to take a walk.”

“Put some clothes on first,” Dean tosses over his shoulder, yawning as he heads back to the bed. “You get claimed by some random alpha in the parking lot, I swear to god, Sam, I’ll skin ‘em slowly and string their hide up the side of this fucking motel.”

Sam lets out a huff of amusement at his brother’s sweet—yet terrifyingly disturbing—promise. “Yeah, alright,” he says jokingly. “But I’m only holding myself back so that the poor manager won’t have to deal with your fucked-up, serial killer shit.”

Dean flips him off as he collapses back onto the mattress.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Sam rests an arm against the Impala’s open trunk as he sweeps his gaze over the interior contents. Well, the first level, at least. Dean didn’t want to get any of the “creepy juju” all mixed up with their weapons, so the old, spare duffel is sitting pretty right on top of the false bottom.

He reaches out to unzip the bag, painstakingly careful not to touch any of the other assorted items knocking around inside. Sam has absolutely no desire to find out what any of the possibly-even- _more_ powerful objects do. Especially not firsthand. He’s had just about enough of that for one lifetime. They all look up at him menacingly. A deadly obstacle course of mysterious fuckery. There’s no way he’d be able to reach the sapphire through all that shit, not without touching something he shouldn’t.

Sam runs a hand through his hair and looks around for something to wrap his hands with. Even a discarded shirt will do. One of the ones torn or bloodied enough that they’d left it for dead, maybe ripped it into strips for his brother to use on the car. What Sam finds instead is an old pair of black winter gloves. He can’t even remember the last time it was cold enough that he or Dean had actually needed them. They must have been sliding around in the trunk for ages, misplaced and forgotten. Sam makes a grab for one anyway, leaves its mate behind and wrangles the padded material down over the fingers of his right hand. They’re clearly Dean’s, the fit awkward and a little too tight, but it covers enough of his skin that he should be protected from the gem’s effects. _Not exactly white silk_ —Sam thinks a little bitterly— _but it’ll get the job done_.

They work fine, despite a slight moment of apprehension right before Sam thrusts his hand in between all the dangerous magic, and he finds the sapphire case without a problem. That clear glass box. A little off-center now that it only houses one gemstone. He flips open the catch and pushes the lid back, then glances down at his palms. His left, naked and vulnerable—it would only take one touch for the spell to work its magic on him, exactly the way it did before. Only the time until his next heat passes to make the change permanent. Sam takes a stuttering breath and shifts his attention to his right, carefully wrapped in his brother’s glove—he’d be able to get a hold on the thing just long enough to smash it against the asphalt without suffering any unwanted effects. Grind the remaining pieces under his boot and rid the world of the dangerous spell for good.

Sam thinks back on the events of the past few weeks, trying to wrangle his thoughts and desires into even the slightest semblance of order. _Which answer is the right one?_ —he thinks to himself. _And how is he even supposed to tell the difference?_ Sam stares down at the delicately sparkling gemstone, deceptively innocent in all its still beauty. Then he lets a bittersweet smile stretch across his lips as he comes to a decision. There wasn’t ever really a question, was there? He knows what he needs. Of course he does. But more importantly, Sam knows what he _wants_.

He takes a deep breath, smiling all the while, and reaches out a hand… 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Sam lingers at the motel door a little before he comes back in. It’s only been a quarter of an hour since he first stepped outside, but it feels so much longer than that. Considering everything he’s just done. The decision he’s just made. Feels like years. Decades, maybe. Sam shores up every single bit of willpower he has—then hesitates again before actually crossing the threshold. Fear halting him in his tracks. He’s _terrified_ that his brother will somehow be disappointed. That he’d secretly been holding onto a preference he refused to admit and now Sam has gone and made the wrong choice. Wrecked things for them forever. The only thing that gets him moving again is the thought of Dean making fun of him for all the unnecessary looming.

His brother remains completely motionless until Sam makes his way into the room proper, still naked, and sitting on the edge of the bed with the afternoon sunlight playing auroras against the gorgeous curve of his back. Dean must have heard him when he first opened the door, but he waits for him to actually step inside before acknowledging his presence, rising to his feet and tilting his head in that specific way which means he’s scenting the air. Sam holds perfectly still as he waits for the axe to fall. He can see his brother’s shoulders stiffen a bit in mild surprise as he realizes, but he’s smiling once he finally turns around to face him.

“This what you want?” Dean asks fondly, finally bridging the space between them in a few easy strides. He stretches up and leaves a lingering press of his lips right underneath the line of Sam’s jaw, then turns his nose against the skin and pulls in a deep lungful of his scent. His forever, now.

“Did you mean what you said earlier?” Sam can’t help but bring up again, his nerves shot from—well, just about _everything_ he’s just done. “About us mating?”

His brother chuckles at the question. Warm and affectionate. He captures Sam’s face between his hands in lieu of replying and pulls him down into a kiss. Wet and soft and perfect. Sam lets out a regretful noise when he finally backs off, but Dean makes sure to leave a promising nip to the base of his throat on his way by. A hint of what’s to come. A _vow_. “Every word, kid.”

And Sam suddenly can’t breathe past all the emotion and excitement clogging his throat. Struck momentarily dumb as he stares down the barrel of everything he’s ever wanted. “Then, yeah,” he whispers thickly, his heart overflowing with more joy than he even knows what to do with. “This is exactly what I want.”

Dean’s answering grin could outshine the sun.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Supertramp's "The Logical Song"


End file.
